


Sustain III: Obbligato

by maybe_amanda, onemillionandnine



Series: The Sustain Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe_amanda/pseuds/maybe_amanda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemillionandnine/pseuds/onemillionandnine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **This work is complete.**

**Sustain III: Obbligato 1/14**  
 **Authors:** Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Beta:** Courtesy of **what_alchemy** (read her stuff!)  
 **BritPicking:** Courtesy of **non_canonical** (read her stuff, too!)  
 **Disclaimer:** Son of fanfic of fanfic. Not ours, not really theirs, either. BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, ACD, PBS, Cumberbatch, Freeman, Brealey (whom we forgot last time!!) etc, etc. No money being made on this side.  
 **Additional Warnings:** Consensual sex, off-screen violence, on-screen violence, family drama, annoying patriarch, disturbing themes.  
 **Note:** Follows **_Sustain_** and **_Sustain II._** You should read those first, or you'll be all kinds of lost. Veers off wildly after _**The Great Game.**_ Not Series Two compliant (at all).  
 **Thanks Again:** to everyone who read, faved, rec'ed, kudo'ed, bookmarked, and sent comments/feedback on Sustain I and Sustain II: Refrain. Every comment is appreciated and cherished. No, really. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

 ** _Felix, qui potest rerum cognoscere causas ___**  
\---after Virgil, "Georgics", v. 490

(Fortunate is he who is able to know the causes of things)

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Pip, as was so often the case, was on a mission. She sat on Mary's sofa, sipping tragic tea, trying to be warm, friendly, and convincing, while trying not to be awkward, frustrated, or rude. She wasn't sure at this point which side was winning.

"We missed you at Easter," she said, and set down her mug. "You and Edmund." She kept catching herself looking around the flat, trying to find some trace of Sherlock. No shoes, no personal effects, not even that stupid skull he always kept prominently on display. She didn’t see his Strad anywhere, either, but a smart person wouldn’t leave it out in the open, especially not in a flat with a baby. But then, Sherlock, in her experience, tended to be mostly stupid.

"Eddie was miserable from his jabs," Mary said. She looked like a rabbit standing on the centre line of the motorway, doing its best to get hit. "Sherlock was supposed to tell Mrs. Holmes -" 

Pip waved her words away. "Sherlock says all sorts of things. We've learned to take it all with a grain of salt. Well, a boulder of salt, really."

Mary opened and closed her mouth, a bit like a goldfish, then pulled the end of her plait out of the baby’s fist. "Um," was all she managed to say.

"Frankly, Violet was, well, has been concerned that Sherlock has made a hash of things with you and that she’s never going to get to see little Edmund again." 

Mary's brow furrowed. "Excuse me, what?" 

"If it’s true, don’t think I blame you for a minute," Pip ploughed on. "Don't think anyone does. Frankly, how you put up with him at all is a mystery." 

Mary shifted Edmund from one side of her lap to the other. "We’re, we’re not, not,- " 

"You’ve given him the boot, haven’t you?" Pip asked. "Well, it was inevitable, really. No one will be surprised, Mary. Violet might be a touch upset, but that's beside the point. It's just that, well, even after Violet sent Quin packing - Quin is their father, I doubt Sherlock's mentioned him much, they don't get on - but even after they separated, Violet brought the boys round to their Grandmother Honoria's on special occasions, holidays, birthdays, that sort of thing, and - "

"Sherlock lives upstairs," Mary blurted. "He always has." 

Pip found herself temporarily at a loss for words. Upstairs? "Oh," she finally said. 

"We don't live, um, together. Exactly."

"So, you and Sherlock, you haven't broken up? You’re still - dating?" Pip asked. 

Mary exhaled dramatically, as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "We're not exactly, um -" she hesitated, "- that, either." 

"Oh." Pip said again, at a loss. They weren't together, and they weren't apart? How did something like that work? "I'm so sorry, Mary. We've all misunderstood. Violet said Sherlock was enchanted - that's the word she used, 'enchanted.'" She smirked. "She’s under the impression you’re the love of his life." 

Mary's face contorted into something almost a grimace. "I don't know about that." 

"I suppose that was the impression he wanted her to have, wanted us all to have. 'Sherlock's found a lovely woman who can tolerate him.' As if! You are entirely too normal for him." 

"Am I?" 

"Well, aren't you?" Pip asked. 

Mary shrugged slightly, almost as if she were apologizing, and said nothing. She appeared as confused as Pip felt. 

Pip looked at Edmund. He sat on Mary’s lap, watching Pip's every move, his expression almost clinical. He looked like every one of Sherlock's baby pictures, and not unlike a few of Mycroft's. There was no mistaking his bloodline. "Edmund is his child, though, isn’t he?" 

"What?" Mary's blinked at her. "Yes, of course." 

"And you and he, are, well, friendly? Not at odds? Not not speaking?"

"He's been out of London for almost a month. I haven't heard from him, but that happens when he's working." She looked away. "When he left, I, um, I think we were on good terms." Mary ended her statement with a blush.

"Oh. I see." She didn't, really, but she hadn’t come to straighten out Sherlock’s emotional life. Curious or not, Pip was there to make certain Mary and Edmund attended Violet’s birthday. "He'll be back for the party. Unless he is physically unable, he'll be in attendance. It's a high holy day for the Holmes boys." 

"Right," Mary said. "Yes, of course." But she looked absolutely miserable. That had not been Pip's plan at all. 

Time to try another tack. "Look, I apologize, Mary. I didn’t mean to overstep any boundaries or make you feel bad about, well, the way Sherlock is." Pip inhaled sharply. "I don't know if Sherlock's told you, if any one has told you, but my parents died in an aeroplane accident when I was twelve -" 

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Mary said, and it sounded very genuine to Pip's ears. 

"Thank you. Yes, well, I was alone in the world. My grandfather, who was my default legal guardian, wasn't much interested. Violet was there for me. She looked out for me when everyone else was out to see what they could get. The reason I’ve come is, as I mentioned, her birthday’s in a week and we planned a little jaunt. Sherlock won't - I can guarantee you - he will not do anything to ruin her party, so there will be no scenes, no amateur dramatics on his part. It would mean a great deal to Violet if you and Edmund were there, whatever the situation between you and Sherlock. And that would mean a great deal to me."

"Oh. Well, I understand that, of course I do, I just -"

"Woo hoo!" someone called out and rapped on the door. "Molly, dear, I've another parcel." 

"Oh! Come in, Mrs. Hudson," Molly said. 

An older woman in an aubergine dress popped her head in the doorway. "Oh sorry, love. I didn't realize you had a guest." 

"No trouble." Mary rose, Edmund now on her hip. "Oh, have the two of you met?"

"I don't believe we have." Pip stood and extended her hand. 

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock's sister-in-law, Phillipa," Mary said. "Phillipa, our landlady, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson placed the box she was carrying on the coffee table, then looked at Pip, clearly surprised. "Oh, you're Mycroft's wife, then? Sherlock's mentioned you, many, many times."

"Has he really?" Pip asked. "Nothing good, I assume."

Mrs. Hudson grinned, waved dismissively. "Well, you know Sherlock." 

"Entirely too well," Pip said. 

"Mrs. Hudson," Mary said, "would you like to join us for a cup of tea?" 

"Can't, love," Mrs. Hudson answered. "Just wanted to get this to you. Signed for it while you were out. I hope that's all right. Just didn't want it sitting out there, getting pinched or having someone come along and, you know, interfering with it." 

"Of course," Mary said. "Just sorry to put you out. And you were careful?" 

Mrs. Hudson smirked. "After that other time? Heavens, yes." 

"Good," Mary replied. 

Mrs. Hudson pointedly looked at the parcel. "How many's that, then?" 

"This makes an even dozen," Mary replied. She seemed uncomfortable with the topic, though, and Pip couldn't help but wonder why. She recognized the distinctive wrapping. The package had come from a very smart shop where she herself often purchased lingerie and sleepwear. Mary's taste in intimate apparel obviously contrasted markedly with that of her outerwear. 

"Are you sure you can't join us?" Mary asked Mrs. Hudson. 

"Positive," she replied. "I'll be on my way. Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes." 

"Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Hudson." 

"So what do you say?" Pip asked once Mrs. Hudson had closed the door. "Are you in?" 

Pip could tell Mary was considering her offer. "Well, what -"

Before Mary could fully answer, the door swung open, and Sherlock walked in liked he lived there, no matter what Mary said. 

"Phillipa," he said without so much as a glance her way, "your broom is double-parked." He stood in front of Mary a moment, then took the now smiling and squealing Edmund from her arms, and marched off to the back of the flat. 

"Lovely to see you again, too, Sherlock, dear," Pip called to his back. 

"Sorry about, um-" Mary grimaced again. Pip thought it was probably an expression that got a lot of use. 

"Don't apologize for him, Mary," Pip said. "It's a bad habit to get into, and one that usually proves hard to break." She took up her bag and jacket. "Please consider coming along. It would mean a great deal to Violet." 

Mary nodded. "Yes, I'll call you, and let you know for sure." 

"Wonderful," Pip said. "I have to run. I'll see myself out. Speak to you soon." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock held Edmund up so he could look him in the eye and was rewarded with a slobbery gnawing on the side of his face. At least someone still liked him.

"How have you been, Edmund?" he asked, and began rifling through Molly's fridge. He'd been away from 221B for 27 days and all he was likely to find in his own fridge was hazardous waste or sentient mould; good for science, bad for digestion. 

By way of reply, Edmund continued gnawing.

"Did you look after your mother?" Sherlock had initially felt foolish talking to someone who was not going to reply, but all the research pointed to the importance of interaction between parent and child with regards to cognitive development. "You've put on six or seven stone in my absence, Edmund, and grown at least three feet in height." 

Edmund found these notions hilarious, and gurgled his delight. 

"'Hullo, Molly,'" Molly said in imitation of Sherlock's voice. "'Nice to see you. Mind if I eat everything in your fridge?'" 

He looked at her. Was she angry, or was she teasing? Perhaps both? It was so hard to tell with her. "I assumed all that was understood."

"Understood?"

"If it weren't, as you say, nice to see you, I wouldn't be here." 

"Is that why you've been gone a month without a word?" 

Sherlock pulled a pear, a block of cheese, and a package of uncooked bacon from the fridge. "I was working." He set the food on the table, hoping Molly would take the hint and start frying. "I don't call when I'm working."

"You usually text," she said. "I was worried you'd met with another cab, one with better aim." 

Edmund lurched forward, making a grab for the pear. Sherlock lifted it off the table and held it up for Edmund to examine, all the while trying to work out whether or not to lie to Molly about texting, or not texting, as was the case. How could he tell her why he didn't text when he didn't know himself? He only knew that each time he'd tried, he'd erased the message before it could be sent. 

"Why was Phillipa here?" he asked, hoping to divert her. "Collecting plump little children to chew on, was she?" He squeezed Edmund and elicited a squeal. "Pouring poison in your ear?"

Molly looked confused. "No. She wanted to know if Eddie and I would be attending your mother's birthday party." 

"Of course you are," he said. "Not that it's any of her business. Molly, what must I say in order to convince you to cook that bacon?" 

She lifted the package and unwrapped it. "You might try, 'Molly, would you please cook that bacon?'"

"Let's take that as read, shall we?" He pulled out a chair, sat, and situated Edmund on his knee. The boy seemed enthralled by the pear, which Sherlock found fascinating. What could possibly be so intriguing? 

Molly sighed and set a frying pan on the hob, laid the strips of meat in it one by one. "Are we attending, Sherlock? Me and Eddie, I mean?" 

"'Edmund and I,'" he corrected. "And of course you're attending. You know I have a mother. You've met her. You know, logically, she has a birthday." 

"Yes," Molly agreed. "But -" 

"I don't know why Pip found it necessary to leave her gingerbread cottage and personally issue an invitation. Oh, of course. She was just here to snoop, wasn't she?"

"Right. I'm not going," Molly told the bacon.

"What?" 

Molly took a deep breath. "I don't know when it is, where it is, and I resent being told what I'm going to do."

Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing. "Excuse me?" 

"Your mother is lovely, and she's always very kind, but I’m not going if you’re going to spend the whole time being nasty to Phillipa." Her motions were becoming more jerky and less certain. "It - it turns my stomach."

Oh, Pip was good. Better, perhaps, than even he'd given her credit for. All these years of living with that manipulative bastard, no doubt. She could not have been there more than half an hour, and yet she had managed to turn Molly against him. "I'm 'nasty,' am I?" 

"You can be," she answered. "You have been. I don't - I don't want Eddie seeing you behave that way." Her words came out in an unsteady rush. 

"Be specific, Molly," Sherlock said. "In what way have I been 'nasty?'" 

Molly sputtered for a moment. This always happened. People objected to his behaviour, yet, when pressed, they couldn’t cite the specific issue. In truth, it was just Sherlock to which they objected. 

He pulled Edmund closer to him and tried to deduce something - anything - from Molly’s stance at the cooker, her hair, lack of make-up, jeans, or trainers. He came up with nothing. Molly was as she always was; inscrutably straightforward.

Fine. He didn't need her. He didn't - 

With her back still turned to him, she drew herself to her full height, such as it was, and said, "The first time I met your brother, he offered me money to terminate my pregnancy. You've no idea how I despised him at that moment, how I still resent that. And yet, when I have to see him, I manage to be civil." 

"It’s hardly the same," Sherlock said. He didn't want to tell her that had only happened because Mycroft knew for a fact she would some day leave him and feared the first thing Sherlock would do when she was gone was jab a needle in his arm. "Besides, I didn’t start it with Pip."

"I never said that you did." Molly said. She let out a long, slow breath. "I don’t want to argue about this, Sherlock."

"We aren’t arguing," he said. "You are saying irrational things, and I am attempting to understand why." 

Molly shut off the gas and turned to face him. "Right, let's try this again." She placed a plate of perfectly fried bacon on the table between them, then sat. "If Mycroft spoke to me, and about me, the way you speak to Pip, and he did that in front of Eddie, would that be all right with you?" 

Sherlock blinked at her, utterly lost. "What?" 

She straightened in her seat. "If Mycroft called me a witch in front of Eddie, or even insinuated it, would you object? Or would you think 'Well, that's fine, none of my business, what do I care?'" 

Oh. When put that way, it was difficult to find an objection that didn’t make him feel - guilty. He cleared his throat. "Yes, of course I'd object." 

"And yet, you do that with Phillipa, and you do it in front of her daughters, and just now, in front of Eddie. Mycroft doesn’t say anything, and I guess that's his prerogative, but you aren't setting much of an example, Sherlock." 

Example? He was meant to set an example? Good God. The notion that anyone would ever consider him an example in any sense beyond the 'here's-what-not-to-do' variety had never occurred to him. That his own son might take cues from his behaviour was even more disturbing. 

And yet, of course, she was right, wasn't she? It was in all the literature. So obvious. 

Well. It should be simple enough to be civil to Pip and the clones - her daughters. He cleared his throat again. "I see. Yes." 

"Right. Good," Molly said. She took two slices of bread from the wrapper and placed them on a plate. "Sherlock, that bacon isn't going to eat itself." She grinned at him, dimples and all, and it seemed that he was forgiven. 

Lucky for him, she was absolute rubbish at holding a grudge. 

"Oh, some parcels came while you were away," she said. "Your name's on the label, but they're addressed to my flat." 

Sherlock was constructing a sandwich one-handed. It would have been easier, he surmised, without the assistance of a eight-month-old. "Yes, I know. I had them sent. Were they suitable?"

"Suitable?" she asked. "I didn't open them." 

"Why not? They're meant for you." 

"Oh," Molly answered, suddenly seeming shy, but about what, he couldn't fathom. 

"Well?" he said. He was doing his best to have a bite of his sandwich without having Edmund gum it first. "Open them." If they weren't the thing, there wasn't much time in which to correct his mistake, and she could not - absolutely could not - be left to her own devices on this matter.

"Do you want me to take him?" she asked. 

"No, I want you to open your parcels," he said. "Can he have a bit of this bread to gum? He seems very keen." 

"Probably not a good idea," she said. Molly padded into the lounge and retrieved the single brown paper wrapped box that Mrs. Hudson had brought in to her. She returned and opened it carefully along the tape lines, taking a great deal more time than was necessary. He wasn’t looking forward to Christmas if this was how she opened packages.

And her birthday. That was expected, wasn't it? A gift from him on Edmund's behalf? He'd have to put a reminder in his phone. 

Molly was quiet as she lifted the printed silk from the box and held it at arm's length. "Oh," she said. 

He was right; the colour suited her as well as he had imagined. Edmund, gnawing on his own fist, turned from watching Sherlock chew to stare at Molly. He seemed to respond to cues from the adults in the vicinity in a way that fascinated and baffled Sherlock. 

"This is - it's beautiful. Thank you. What’s it, um, for?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Wearing, obviously. Traditionally, the kimono is considered daywear, but I thought you might use it as a dressing gown." 

"It's almost too nice to wear," she said, tentatively. "I suppose my dressing gown is a bit shabby, though."

"'A bit shabby' is a gross understatement," he said. "I know homeless who wouldn't be caught dead in that monstrosity. Do open the rest of the parcels, Molly. At this rate, you'll still be opening them on the train."

"Train? What train? 

"The train to the coast, where we'll board the boat."

Molly looked at him with her nose wrinkled, the way she did. "Boat?"

"Boat, ship, yacht," he waved dismissively. "Floating conveyance." 

"Oh, so the party is on a boat." 

"No, the party is at my aunt's house near Marseilles, which yes, before you ask, is still in France." 

"Oh." 

"Oh, fine," he said flatly. "Molly, will you please come with me to my mother's birthday party, in France, by boat, which my brother has borrowed for the occasion? Fair warning; there will be hordes of relatives in attendance."

Molly was silent a moment. "What should I pack?" she asked, which Sherlock took to mean 'yes.'

"The clothes I bought you for the trip, but it would be easier if you took them out of the parcels first," Sherlock said. "Obviously." 

"Oh. You bought me a new wardrobe, for your mum's birthday?" Molly asked. 

'New wardrobe' was an exaggeration, but there were enough clothes for the week they'd be gone. Molly's taste in clothing was atrocious. She couldn't manage items that fit properly, much less matched. The idea that he might allow her to sit beside Pip, who knew how to use everything from the lighting to the decor to her advantage, in something OXFAM would reject as 'just too awful,' was out of the question. His mother would think he didn't care for Molly at all, which was not the impression he wanted her to have. The Vernets, as a group, would wonder if she suffered colour-blindness or, instead, if she were conducting some daring psychological experiment. And Pip would sit there in her perfectly co-ordinated clothes and shoes and pearls and smirk. 

He was not John Watson. He didn't emote all over the furniture. But he could do this for her. He could make certain she didn't look out of place, and by extension, didn't feel out of place. It was important to Molly's sense of self that she fit in, whatever the situation. And he could see to it that the two of them looked as if they were together.

"You're welcome," he said, and took the final bite of his sandwich. 

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, looking a bit flustered. "Thank you." She was quiet a moment. "I'm glad to have you back, no, I mean I'm - I'm glad you're back." 

Sherlock swallowed carefully. "Are you? Really?" 

Molly looked at him as if he'd asked a very strange question. "Would I be frying you bacon if I weren't?" She smiled. "Next time, though, could you please let me know you aren't dead? I was a bit worried."

Edmund made a grab for his empty plate, and Molly rose to take it to the sink. 

"The telephone works both ways," he said. 

Molly tipped her head to the side. "It does, doesn't it?" she said. "Next time, I'll remember that."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~ 

They woke up, showered, got dressed, had breakfast, went to work, just as they did every day. Sarah saw three head colds, two sprained ankles, a rash that was probably contact dermatitis, a rash that was definitely ringworm, four older patients in need of prescription refills and a sympathetic ear, and an infected cat bite that was a great deal more infected than any simple cat bite should be. She ate lunch at her desk - a sandwich and vitamin water, even though she knew better - filled out her notes, updated the patient charts and made two phone calls. And at the end of the day, every patient seen and every file charted, she walked out of her office and looked at John, standing there with his hands in his pockets.

"Home?" she asked him, just as she had every day for almost a month.

He gave her a skeptical glance. 

"Just checking," she answered, and locked the door behind her. 

She'd been concerned at first, worried that John would tell her she was over-involved and that her behaviour was unprofessional. Worried he'd tell her it was hopeless. Instead, every day, after they left the clinic and before they collapsed on their sofa, John accompanied her to the NICU. They held the baby when they could, stroked his tiny hand when they couldn't. Everyone knew. No one asked. 

They weren't allowed in right away that evening - something to do with equipment maintenance which Sarah had only half-listened to when Carla, the nurse who was there with them most evenings, began her apologetic explanation. They stood outside the unit and peered through the glass, waiting. 

"Eight whole days," John said, his eyes fixed on the baby. 

"What's that?" she asked. 

"He's been off the respirator eight days." He turned to her. "That's a good sign." 

She nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Just under two kilos," he added. "You know what that means." 

She knew. There was no doubt in Sarah's mind anymore; the baby was going to make it.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 1/14


	2. Chapter Two

Sustain III - Obbligato (2/14)  
MaybeAmanda and OneMillionNine See Chapter One for Details  
********************************

Molly didn’t know, sometimes, quite what Sherlock meant by some of the things he said. She'd had thought that it was just Sherlock's way. Now she was extending that to cover his sister-in-law as well. And come to think of it, Mycroft seemed to enjoy making as little sense as necessary, didn't he? Maybe it was a Holmes thing. 

Pip had referred to Violet's party as a 'jaunt.' Molly didn't think it was a word she herself would use in relation to anything, but she understood the concept. The concept didn't, however, encompass a week off the coast of France on an enormous yacht. With a crew. A crew which Sherlock’s family seemed to either not notice, or to take for granted. Molly did her best to look them in the eye and speak to them when they were in the room, but that seemed to embarrass both the crew and Sherlock’s family. In other words, she was uncomfortable and unsettled. Situation normal, really. 

She sat in the below-deck lounge, trying to convince Eddie to keep his hat on. Eddie was too busy smiling and peek-a-boo-ing with his cousins to co-operate. 

"Great Grandfa was going to come with us," Gemma explained. The girl opened an ornate box on a side table and produced a deck of playing cards. "Banjolele is his boat." 

"Banjolele IV really," Genevieve corrected her sister. "But we call it Banjolele for short." She joined her sister at a small table near the window and the two of them began playing some card game. 

"What happened to the other three Banjoleles?" Molly asked.

"Sunk," Pip called from across the room. 

"Banjolele VI," Gemma said, "she's his boat, and he was going to come with us, but he's broken his hip."

"Oh dear," Molly said as she bent to retrieve Eddie's hat. She was beginning to wonder if anything short of gaffer tape was going to do the trick. "That's awful." 

"He was dancing when it happened," Genevieve said. 

"Dancing?" Molly asked. 

"Conga line," Mycroft said. He was sitting at the piano, picking out some sort of light, jazzy tune that sounded vaguely familiar, but only vaguely. 

"I’m sorry to hear that," Molly said. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that there was a piano on a yacht. It reminded her of a 1930's film set. "That's particularly difficult for the elderly. He must be having a terrible time of it." 

"I wouldn’t fret too much," Mycroft said. "We’ve already had to replace one private nurse due to excessive bottom-pinching."

"Still, I would have liked to meet Sherlock’s grandfather," she said.

"Not my grandfather," Sherlock said from behind a French newspaper. 

"Mine," Phillipa said.

Molly was drawing a family tree in her mind. "So, your great-uncle, then, Sherlock?"

"So I've been told," Sherlock answered. "He's also my godfather. I'm named for him, a bit." 

"A bit?" Molly asked. 

"Grandfa is Hildebrande Sherlock," Gemma said. 

"Mummy is Phillipa Sherlock-Holmes," Genevieve said. 

"And Uncle Sherlock is Sherlock Holmes," Gemma continued. "And Edmund is Edmund Holmes."

"Edmund Vernet Hooper," Sherlock corrected. 

Gemma's eyebrows pulled together. "Shouldn’t his surname be Holmes?" she asked Molly.

"I think perhaps there are enough Holmes' aboard already, don't you?" Violet asked as she entered. "Good morning, mes petites!" 

"Grand-mère!" the girls called. Eddie waved his hands. 

Molly felt like she'd dodged a very awkward bullet. "Well, I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him, just the same," she said, steering the conversation in another direction. 

Sherlock flipped another page of his paper. "I'm not. " 

"Why?" 

"You aren't a relation," Mycroft said, "so he'd have pinched your backside black and blue." 

Pip grimaced, but didn't argue the point. 

"And that wouldn't end well, would it?" Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock. "How many broken hips does one octogenarian need, after all?" 

Sherlock folded his paper shut. "Excuse me," he said, and left the room. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock stalked off to his cabin. Molly had asked him to avoid being 'nasty' in front of Pip and the children, and so, he had not engaged Mycroft, even though rejoinders had come at him, fast and furious. He had walked away. He had turned the other cheek. He had set an example. He hadn't cut that smug git to the quick.

He had not lied to his mother, nor to any of them: he was involved with Molly. He and Molly were involved. What concerned him, though, was the fact that, while he and Molly did have something between them, they weren’t a couple, at least not in the joint-bank-account-holidays-in-Majorca-boring-normal-every-day sense, at least. They had separate flats, separate bills, and separate day-to-day concerns. And since, as far as the official record was concerned, Edmund’s paternity was an open question, there was no legal tie that bound them. 

Which left him with the problem of how to behave with Molly in front of his family. It was essential that he reassure Mummy, and that he leave Pip no room to criticise. So how did people behave with the mother of their child? 

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and pondered the question for some time. Finally, he realized he had a perfectly serviceable template ready-made before him: Mycroft.

Mycroft was smug, arrogant, self-satisfied, smarmy, high-handed, lazy, prissy, intrusive, and snide. But he was also considered a good father and an exemplary partner, all of which Sherlock, who knew him too well, found baffling and not a little bizarre, but there it was. 

All he had to do was take cues from his brother’s behaviour. There was no way Pip or Mummy could find fault with that.

Perfect! 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

At such close quarters, Molly expected a bit more tension, at least on Sherlock’s part. But no, if anything Sherlock seemed extra relaxed, which was strange. He sat beside her on the sofa, just like he often did at home, though he didn’t end up resting his head on her lap. And when she announced that it was time for her to turn in, Sherlock stretched and said, "I suppose that’s my cue," and he strolled along after her.

By the time she'd emerged from the washroom, Sherlock had changed into his pajamas. "I'll sleep on the sofa, then," he said.

"What?" she said. "Why? Sherlock, you can barely sit on that tiny sofa. How are you going to sleep on it?" 

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm not especially tired." 

Molly frowned. "Then why did you come to bed? You could have stayed with your famil -" 

Sherlock shook his head, fussing a bit with the sofa cushions. "No. No, this is, this is fine." 

Sherlock very rarely slept in a bed, as far as she could tell, and he had slept with her - actual sleeping, that is - only after being awake for three days and getting hit by a cab. Sleeping with another person took some getting used to, true, and perhaps that was his concern. 

"Is there another cabin, an empty one?" she asked. "If you'd rather be on your own -"

Sherlock scowled. "No, of course not. I'd prefer to be here. With Edmund. And you." He paused. "Unless you'd rather I left?"

Molly shook her head. "No. I'd rather you slept in the bed," she said, and got in herself. 

Sherlock stood beside the bed, his expression blank. He cast a glance at Eddie, then at Molly. "Very well." He climbed in beside her, and laid at the far end of the mattress, as stiff as a board.

"One good wave, and you’re going to fall to the floor," Molly whispered.

"Need I remind you there’s a child in this room?" Sherlock asked.

Molly blinked. "Do you think I’m going to molest you or something?" 

Sherlock rolled over so that he was facing her. His nose wrinkled but looked like he was trying not to grin. "I wouldn't advise it."

"And God forbid Eddie get the mistaken impression that his parents like each other," Molly said. 

After a moment he said, very carefully, "It would not be a mistaken impression. Would it?" 

"I don’t know." She shrugged. "I like you. Do you like me?" 

"Molly," he said, warning in his voice. 

"I ought to be allowed to put my arm round you, at least." 

"Allowed?" Sherlock said dubiously.

"Well, can I?" Molly asked.

"I don’t know, can you?"

The urge was too strong, and this time Molly did roll her eyes. "May I, then? May I put my arm around you?" 

Sherlock gave a very put-upon sigh. "If you insist." 

"I don't insist, I-" Molly blinked. "Oh! You're teasing me." 

"Do you know," he said, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp, then looping his arm around her, "I believe I am." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

They hadn't been at sea a full twenty-four hours before Sherlock came to regret his promise to do unto Pip as he would have done unto Molly. She begun sniping at breakfast, and by teatime, his dearest sister-in-law had offered to have him moved to the crew quarters for Molly’s sake, to revive the practice of keelhauling, and to dig up a plank for the express purpose of having him walk it.

He hadn’t bitten. Not once. He had taken it all with as much equanimity as he could muster. 

Which had apparently been a mistake, because now Pip was insisting he entertain her.

"No." He flipped another page in his forensics journal.

"Sher-lock," Pip whinged, "you know your brother sounds like a toad wedged in a u-bend."

"Unfortunate, but accurate," Mycroft said. He was picking out some god-awful sentimental old tune. Good lord, it was 'Stardust.' "Thank God for my many other talents." 

"No," Sherlock repeated. "Banal popular music from another era is still banal popular music. Furthermore, I’m not a trained monkey."

"Trained? You aren’t even housebroken." Pip sniffed. "Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t get agitated and fling faeces."

"I could do," he replied. 

He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or bad thing that Molly chose that moment to come into the room, mug of tea in hand.

"Oh, there you are, Mary. Eddie's gone to sleep, then?" Pip asked pleasantly. "Perhaps you can help. I’ve been trying to cajole Sherlock into accompanying Mycroft."

"I don’t think he brought his violin," Molly said. She sat on the same sofa he was on, but she had left a good two feet between them. "You didn't, did you?"

"Of course not," Mycroft answered for him. "She’s trying to get him to sing."

"You sing?" Molly asked. 

Sherlock shrugged. "Anyone can sing." 

It was the truth, after all. But for some reason, Mycroft snorted, and Pip, with one hand melodramatically placed over her eyes, shook her head and said, "Are you really that dense? How did you ever manage - no, I don’t want to know."

Sometimes, Sherlock wished he knew what Pip was on about, just so he could contradict her. 

"Sherlock sings well," Mycroft said. "Quite well." 

"'Well'? Mycroft, please," Pip said. "Despite his innumerable shortcomings, your brother has a gorgeous voice." 

"Really?" Molly asked. She didn’t even look Pip’s way. 

It gave Sherlock a warm, smug feeling. He closed the magazine and set it on the table, but that left him with no idea where to look. He settled on a particularly ugly spot on the carpet. "People often find my singing pleasant." 

Pip groaned. 

"Well, I’d like to hear you," Molly said. Then, as if she realized she had said something awful, she looked into her tea cup and quickly followed up with, "Sometime, I mean. Not necessarily now. Um. When you're in the mood, when you feel like singing." 

Sherlock cast a glance her way. He hoped the other dresses he bought suited her as well as this pale blue one she was wearing. Molly had rather nice legs, but the trousers she wore made her look dowdy and shapeless, and, in truth, she was neither. 

Molly took another sip of her tea. Ginger again. Which meant she was still feeling seasick. Despite his assurances, and those of every medical association he could Google, Molly had chosen not to ingest anything that might be passed on to Edmund. 

She was so good at that; putting others first. 

"How does now suit you?" he asked, and Molly positively beamed at him.

"If you're sure." 

Pip, of course, was smirking her triumphant little smirk, and he would have liked to say something to wipe that look off her face. But with Molly in the room and promises to keep, he really couldn't. Oh, he knew what would do the trick.

"Yes." He stood, then leaned down and kissed Molly right on the forehead, in full view of both Pip and Mycroft. "I'm sure."

Molly started a little, but said nothing. He hoped he hadn't overstepped. 

He turned to Mycroft, whose eyebrows were migrating toward his receding hairline. "How about Weill? ‘Denn Wovon Lebt der Mensch?" 

'What Keeps Mankind Alive.' He’d do it in the original German; Pip would absolutely hate that.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Molly came to breakfast the third morning, Eddie in her arms. She was still feeling a bit wobbly, but she was keeping down tea, at least, and she felt like dry toast might be manageable. She hadn't had the energy to get dressed, so she'd slipped the lovely kimono Sherlock had given her over the lovely pajamas he'd given her, and deemed herself presentable. She hadn't slept well the past two nights, and if things went right, she might be able to sneak in a nap later. 

"Morning," she said to Pip and the girls, and seated herself. 

"Morning," Pip said. The girls echoed the greeting. 

"Where is everyone?" Molly asked. She ripped a crust off a slice of toast and let Eddie gnaw at it. 

"Mycroft had to make a call," Pip answered. She held up the tea pot, silently asking if Molly'd like a cup. "So did Violet. Again. I've no idea where Sherlock might be." 

"He's showering," Molly answered, and held out her cup. "Thanks."

"You'd think they could run that office for ten minutes without Mycroft's direct input, but that doesn't seem to be the case." Pip sighed. She was pretending it didn't bother her, but Molly could tell that it did. 

"What does Mycroft do?" Molly asked. "I mean, for work." 

"He pushes paper," Genevieve answered. 

"And has fifteen boring meetings a day," Gemma added.

Pip shrugged. "That about sums it up," she said. "Low-level bureaucrat. Seems he's good at it, though." 

That didn't sound quite right to Molly. But then, she had no better idea, really. 

"Good morning!" Violet entered then, smiling brightly. 

Pip blinked at her mother-in-law. "Oh. Good call, was it?" 

Violet helped herself to tea and toast and sat. "I have no idea what you mean, Phillipa," she said, a twinkle in her eye. 

"Your new conductor again, I take it?" 

Molly could tell Violet was making a real effort not to grin. "Yes, in fact," Violet said. "We were discussing arrangements. Gemma, dear, pass the marmalade, please." 

Pip smirked. "Oh, 'arrangements.' Yes, I'm sure you were."

"Nothing like that," Violet assured her. She spread marmalade on her toast the way she did everything, Molly noticed - perfectly. "It's just nice, for once, to work with a conductor who lives up to the, shall we say, fanfare?"

Pip's eyes shot wide. "Oh really?" 

"Yes, really," Violet answered. "I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for someone to get those violins under control." She punctuated her statement with a large bite of toast.

Pip all but shrieked with laughter, while Violet chuckled behind her hand. The girls gave their mother and grandmother sidelong glances. "What are you two talking about?" Gemma finally asked. 

"Nothing, darling, just work," Violet answered. "Nothing but work, work, work, mes belles. But we're on vacation. No more of that!" 

"Hello," came Sherlock's voice from the doorway. "What's so amusing?"

Molly woke up a bit to see him looking the way he did. In her experience, Sherlock either wore expensive, well-cut trousers and jackets with lovely button-front shirts, or loose, thread-bare pyjama bottoms with t-shirts so nasty she wouldn't have used them to wipe the windows. Fresh from his shower, his hair a little damp and a little wild, Sherlock wore white trousers and a loose white button-front shirt. He looked - he looked delicious, is what he looked. Molly's mouth actually watered. 

Eddie smiled and waved his arms, the way he did whenever Sherlock appeared. Molly was glad she had slightly more self-restraint, or she would surely have embarrassed herself.

"Morning, Mummy," Sherlock said, and gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek. "Pip, ladies." He nodded to the others. He grabbed a slice of toast, then swooped in and took Eddie from Molly's lap. "Going to take him up on deck, all right? And yes, yes, I'll find his hat and slather him in suncream first." He gave her a quick peck on the temple.

Molly was very nonchalant this time. She didn’t even choke on her tea.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Really, one would think Anthea could manage a week on her own. It seemed to Mycroft that she always wanted more autonomy, until he actually gave it to her. Then, she came scuttling back to the safety of his umbrella of advice. But no, it was urgent, very urgent. It always was, it seemed. 

Sherlock could do with a bit of that. His advice, that was.

His little brother sat on the deck with The Child on his lap, pointing to the shore and holding forth on the history of piracy, which was one of those topics where Sherlock did tend to go on. And on. Regardless, the boy looked rapt, probably because he was too young to understand how pedantic his father was. In time, Edmund would, no doubt, work it out. 

Marseilles was growing larger before them. Soon, it would be non-stop smiling and cheek-kissing and endless rounds of niceties, and good God, so much food. The time to breach the subject with his brother was now.

"Have you anything new?" Mycroft said.

"On?" 

Mycroft shot him a knowing glance. 

"Not half as much as you, I suspect," Sherlock replied, and went back to twiddling his baby’s toes. He was an incorrigible twiddler, and always had been.

"That must be a disappointment to John; you spend a month playing the vagabond, looking into his little mystery, and despite your exhaustive efforts, you have nothing to new to show?" 

Sherlock ignored him. 

"Catching out on moving trains with your gypsy friends, Sherlock? How Molly must worry."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "They’re called Rom, or Kaulo Camlo, which you well know. As for John, I’ve no clue. He instructed me to delete him, and I’ve been only too happy to oblige." 

"Excuse me? You expect me to believe you've deleted, or are attempting to delete, John Watson?" Mycroft couldn’t help giving a little laugh at the suggestion. "I hardly think it’s as drastic as all that. Friends come into conflict from time to time, Sherlock; they argue, they disagree."

Sherlock snorted. "As if you'd have a clue about friends." 

Mycroft could not argue that point. "One reads," he said, with a wave of his hand. 

He could tell his brother was working to suppress a grin. "Have your people managed to get anything from that second chip?"

"You haven't deleted the case along with John?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "You know I prefer my mysteries solved." 

"Yes, of course. My ‘people,’ as you call them, should be in contact soon."

"So we're in the same boat, are we?" Sherlock said, never looking away from the sea.

"And what boat is that?" Mycroft asked.

"You’ve nothing, either," Sherlock said, and kissed a little hand.

From where Mycroft stood, it certainly appeared that Sherlock had a great deal.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 2/14


	3. Chapter Three

Sustain III: Obbligato 3/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

As it turned out, Sherlock’s Aunt Angelique and Uncle Jean-Michel were 'normaler' than his immediate family. They had a nice, but not obscenely nice, house that backed on to the shore, and a beautiful garden that didn’t require full-time staff. Their home was lovely in an eclectic sort of way, just the thing you would expect from two art history professors who'd been married over forty years. 

But on a personal level, the first thing that struck Molly about them was that they were extremely French. When she first met Sherlock's mother, Molly had thought she was 'very French,' as opposed to the 'a bit French' Sherlock had used to describe her. But, surrounded by his relatives, it soon became clear that there was a 'being French' spectrum, and that Violet was not as close to the far end as Molly had first thought.

And Molly, who had excelled in French at school, couldn’t hear or speak the language to save her life. It was embarrassing. 

Not that it fazed Sherlock in the least. "Mary est quelque peu timide," he told his aunts, uncles, and cousins with a shrug. Which, Molly thought, meant Sherlock would rather tell them she was shy than that she had learnt French from a series of nuns who could barely speak the language themselves. 

They worked out what he meant soon enough, though, and their English was miles better than her French. Molly just felt like a moron, was all. The status, as her dad would say, remained quo.

And in a few moments, she had to face dozens of them again, maybe hundreds. And try not to embarrass herself or anyone else while doing it. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought.

She peered into the mirror and carefully brushed on mascara. "Couldn’t you wait in the lounge with your brother?" 

"God no," Sherlock answered.

She smudged the corner of her eye and screwed up her face in frustration. "Why not?" 

"Waiting in the lounge with my brother would necessitate waiting in the lounge with my brother." He was sprawled on the bed, playing some sort of game with Eddie that involved hiding things under a handkerchief and squealing. 

"It's just, well, you’re making me nervous," she said.

"I'm testing Edmund's understanding of object permanence. How on Earth am I making you nervous?"

Molly sighed. She put too much store in his opinion, and she knew it. "No reason, I’m barking, that’s all." She backed away from the mirror to get a better view of her reflection. "Is this dress a bit short? It feels a bit short."

"No," Sherlock said. "You are a bit short, and as a result, most of your skirts hit several inches lower than they were intended to, rendering a matronly, formless effect. Despite being what you’ve become accustomed to, it does not logically follow that the amorphous, dressed-yourself-in-the-dark-with-clothes-stolen-from-clowns-twice-your-size' aesthetic is either suitable or correct."

She blinked. "What?" 

"On the other hand, the dress you are wearing is flattering, properly fitted, and the right length. Red letter day." 

"Fine. Tell me one thing: do I look hideous?" 

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled like a annoyed sharpei’s. "When did this become a second-rate television comedy?" 

It was her own fault, really. She felt stressed and she wanted reassurance, but he was probably the least logical person to turn to for that. "I want to make a good impression, that's all. Is there anything I should change?"

He looked her up and down quickly. "The shoes." 

Molly looked at her ballet flats. "What about them?" 

Sherlock said, "They ruin the effect."

"What effect?" Molly asked her reflection. "I like these shoes. I want to wear these shoes." 

"Right," Sherlock said. He climbed off the bed, brushed down his own clothes, and then Eddie’s. "We’ll be in the lounge. Waiting. With my brother."

After he left, Molly looked down at her feet. These shoes were comfortable. They were fine. What was he on about? 

Still, she wondered. 

She stepped out of her flats, stepped into her heels. Just to see. 

In the mirror, her legs seemed longer. She looked her reflection up and down, caught sight of her bum in the vanity mirror opposite. 

Oh. The heels did make a difference, didn't they? Well, they weren’t that high, really, and she might make it all the way to Sherlock’s chin now.

Dammit. Why was he always right? 

Next time Sherlock told her she was short, she was going to accuse him of being tall just to spite her. That ought to confuse him. It would serve him right, too.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Violet didn’t know where she had gone wrong. She'd done her best - music lessons, summers with the relatives, au pairs who were properly French instead of nannies who were strangely English. She had tried to nurture their tastes and temperaments. In spite of it all, one day she looked at her sons and realized they had grown up to be Englishmen.

She could hear Mycroft defending the British monarchy at the far end of the room.

"For heaven’s sake, Claude, one needs someone reliable and experienced to launch ships, plant trees, and come round to see the common man in hospital after a major disaster. The last thing anyone wants after a catastrophe is to regain temporary consciousness on your death-bed to find some career politician leering down at you like a jackal, wondering how he can squeeze a few more votes from your soon-to-be corpse." 

She sighed. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Mary were at it again, taking turns making cow eyes every time the other looked away. It was ridiculous. How could they share a bed and a child and each still treat the other as if they were some unattainable object? If they wanted to be passionately in love, that was fine with her, more than fine. She'd encourage it, in fact. What she could not abide was this pointless business of romance conducted at arm’s length. It was so stupidly English. 

"Sherlock, your glass is empty. Is that any way to celebrate your mother’s sixtieth birthday?" Violet asked. He was engaged in balefully staring at Mary as she walked through the garden.

"Sixtieth? Are you my younger sister now?" Marguerite waved her glass in Violet’s direction. "Don’t forget the rest of us."

"Shut up," Violet said with a smile. She filled her sister's glass to the brim. "No one's told you? I’ve been getting younger for years!"

Phillipa laughed, a sound that reminded Violet of a brigade of cavalry charging over a wooden bridge, the champagne having done its work on her. "You’ll be younger than Mycroft soon, Violet," she said.

"That was always my plan," she said. She arched one brow. "Sherlock, darling, be sociable, and drink your champagne." 

A scowl flashed across his features, but he lifted the glass and downed its contents in a single motion. 

"Who in the name of all that is holy taught you to drink champagne that way?" She reached across the table and poured him another. "Now, enjoy this one. Savour it. That is not a request, that’s an order." 

Sherlock sniffed. "Oui. Merci, Maman."

"Mercy? I have none!" she replied. "And where, by the way, is my beautiful grandson?"

"Mary has him." He craned his neck, no doubt to keep sight of her amongst the ripening fruit trees. He drank his champagne without even bothering to pretend to taste it. 

If that wasn’t love, Violet didn’t know what was. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Mycroft Holmes was, by design, a very boring person. It was a state he had actively cultivated since before his university days, and had long been a point of pride. He had no addictions, no odd habits, no peccadilloes or little ways. His eye did not wander, and his zip stayed zipped. His personal financial situation was best described as 'comfortable' and he had married into enough wealth that graft would have been gilding the lily. He had no temper to speak of, unless he was dealing with his younger brother. He didn’t even swear. He was fond of his wife and children to a degree that was respectable, but not immoderate. He was, as Sherlock had once put it, 'as dull as one could be without actually being in a coma.' Thus, he'd long believed was more or less beyond the reach of blackmail.

It was amazing how stunningly wrong he’d been.

Sherlock sat perched on the arm of the divan, staring out the wide-flung garden doors, watching Molly chat with Oncle Jean-Michel.

"Do sit down on the seat like an adult," Mycroft said. "And here, have some of this excellent cognac before it’s gone."

He watched Sherlock top up an unattended glass and drink. Sometimes Mycroft suspected his brother had an awareness of germ theory roughly equivalent to that of a two-year-old.

Sherlock slumped down in the corner of the sofa, hunching his shoulders as if trying to hide, all the while watching his little doctor and their son.

"Why is it that we love them so?" Mycroft asked eventually.

Sherlock turned to give him a hard look, clearly misunderstanding.

"The children, Sherlock, our children." Mycroft took another mouthful and rolled it on his tongue to get the full effect. He held it there, enjoying it, waiting to swallow. "It’s not, it’s not like it is with women; we don’t carry them in our bodies, do we? And yet, somehow, they have the power to make us love them madly. Why is that?" 

"Obvious." Sherlock waved his free hand. "Evolutionary biology. Males willing to protect their offspring are more likely to have those offspring survive to reproductive age and pass their genes on to the succeeding generations."

"No, that's far, far too simplistic." Mycroft shook his head, noting how easily Sherlock admitted to loving his child. As he should, of course, but one never knew with Sherlock. "You can’t tell me our father would have paused a moment before tossing either one of us to a saber-toothed tiger, and for the life of me I can’t imagine him failing at anything -" his lip curled, "- biological in nature."

"Different tactic." Sherlock said. "The 'shag-every-female-you-can-get-to-splay- her-knees-and-hope-a-few-of-the-little-buggers-survive-long-enough-to- reproduce' model. Messier, but just as effective over time. Perhaps more so, really."

"Do you think?" Mycroft said and refilled Sherlock's glass.

"They claim sixteen million men currently carry Genghis Khan’s Y-chromosome." Sherlock took another mouthful of his drink. "I seriously doubt he tucked them all into bed at night." 

"Even considering it seems exhausting." One woman was more than sufficient as far as Mycroft was concerned, and Phillipa, for all her vinegar, was rather low-maintenance. "Out of curiosity, could you name the current Prime Minister of your native country?"

"Why? Can't you recall?" Sherlock glanced his way for an instant. "And yes, more than one seems excessive."

Mycroft wasn’t sure whether they were discussing women or children, but thinking of his daughters, he couldn’t help but feel defensive. "It’s not bad. They do keep one another entertained."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Women?" 

The cognac was slowing his brother's brain. "Children, you clot." 

"Ah." Sherlock took another sip, was quiet for a moment. "Children aren’t trouble, not the way people usually make them out to be. It would be a wonder the human race managed to reproduce at all if you listened to some people." 

"Child, in your case," Mycroft said. 

"Yes, child in my case," Sherlock said. "I could bear a few more, though. If Mar- Molly decided it was what she wanted, I mean."

Mycroft tried not to give away any surprise. If she had any sense, Molly Hooper would keep her legs crossed, henceforth. Sherlock was already out of his depth; no point driving him even further out to sea.

"Exactly how much have you had to drink, little brother?"

"Enough," Sherlock said. He set down his emptied glass, rose from the divan dramatically, straightened his shirt, and walked away. 

Mycroft was left with the same problems he had before Sherlock sat down, problems that had nothing to do with Sherlock, and everything to do with Phillipa. Phillipa and himself. Phillipa and himself and the twins. 

Mycroft poured himself another cognac. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Of course, as an art historian, I was familiar with the Vernets long before I ever met Angelique," Sherlock’s Uncle Jean-Michel said. With his white hair and beard and stern expression, he reminded Molly of an old-fashioned postcard of Father Christmas - tall, thin, and uncompromising. He was, from what she gathered, a bit older than his wife, Sherlock’s Aunt Angelique, and once you spoke to him, he was quite friendly, and more than a bit flirty.

"Oh?" she said. She shifted Eddie, who was sleeping and drooling on her shoulder, from one side of her body to the other. She had no idea what Jean-Michel was talking about. 

"Forgive me," he laughed. "It’s the academic’s curse, you know? We forget sometimes that what is common knowledge in our field is not quite so common outside of it. The Vernets have been artists as long as anyone knows. The cathedrals of France are rife with examples of generations of their work."

"Really? That’s, um, wow!" Molly said it, then instantly felt stupid. "Sorry, sorry, that was - "

"No need to apologize, my dear. Honest enthusiasm is always welcome and it is a fascinating topic. What is perhaps most interesting is that, for generations, they were very fine decorative painters, skilled craftsmen. Then, in 1728, fourteen-year-old Claude Vernet cast off a very comfortable life in pursuit of true art. He was wildly successful. His son Carle was also, but the Revolution scarred him deeply." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes. He stopped painting after he lost his sister to the guillotine."

"I can see why he might find that upsetting," Molly said honestly. 

"Sherlock has never told you this?" 

"No, never." Sherlock never talked about his family much at all. At least, not to her. 

"No doubt it’s very dull to him, they’ve all heard it a thousand times. What is also interesting is Horace Vernet, Carle’s son, who was actually born in the Louvre during the Revolution. He, too, was a painter, but rejected the classical idealized style of his father and grandfather for a realism that could have been the end of his career if he had not been skillful and well-connected." Jean-Michel was waving his arms, now. Molly suspected he would have liked to have a black board behind him. "You must forgive me, Mary. See how it is? A professor is a professor, in the classroom or at the party for the sister of his wife. I have bored you, and just in time, your handsome young lover has come to rescue you from the tiresome old man, droning on about art."

"No, no," she assured him. "Not at all, it’s fascinating." 

"Your Sherlock, he cares for art very much, I would say."

"Oh?" That was news to Molly. 

"Of course! A man with such a woman does not lack appreciation," Jean-Michel said as Sherlock joined them.

"Oh? And what sort of woman is that, Oncle Jean-Michel?" Sherlock asked.

"One who looks like a virgin martyr, of course," Jean-Michel said, grinning. "You, Mary dear, are the lover of a man with an eye for subtlety." 

Sherlock didn’t smile. He didn't react at all, as far as Molly could see. He simply took Eddie from her arms, then kissed her on the forehead. Twice. 

He reeked of liquor. It worried her. Sherlock never drank. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sarah had been having the nicest dream. 

She was in a beautiful restaurant, having soup, when she felt and heard her spoon clink against something solid. She kept eating, and there, down to the bottom of the bowl, was a big gold coin. It was only a dream-coin, but her dream-self kept staring at it, wondering whether or not to eat it.

The decision was taken away by her ringing phone. 

For some reason she could not explain, the unfamiliar voice on the other end practically frightened her awake.

"May I speak to your husband, please, Dr. Sawyer?" the man said.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 3/14


	4. Chapter Four

Sustain III: Obbligato 4/14  
Authors: MaybeAmanda and Onemillionnine  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

It was one of the basic tenets of Sherlock’s personal philosophy that simply knowing something did not mean that he ought to share that knowledge with anyone else. It was a maxim he had developed in adolescence out of sheer necessity, having prior to the age of seven kept a constant running account of every thought that passed through his brain. It had taken several pointed beatings from other boys at school to teach him the wisdom of restraining his tongue. 

He was grateful for the lesson now, as it served him quite well where Molly was concerned. He’d have hated to imagine what a fool he would have made of himself over her otherwise. There, in their cabin, as Molly adjusted Edmund's covers with the moonlight shining through the porthole and outlining the shape of her body, it seemed to Sherlock she had it in her to make him very foolish indeed. 

The sudden change in the fit of his trousers reinforced this.

A quick dip in the cool waters of the Mediterranean would put an end to that. With that in mind, he headed toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Molly said, sounding surprised.

"For a swim," he said. Did he need to tell her more? 

"Alone? In the dark? When you’re - when you’ve been drinking?"

"Pffft," he said, without thinking. "I’m not inebriated." 

"Are you sure?" She spoke gently. "You have had a bit to drink." 

"Quite certain," he said, quietly relishing the notion that she cared whether or not he drowned. "And if you come along, I shan’t be alone."

Molly's brow wrinkled. "Do sober people say 'shan't'?" 

"This one does." Without another word, he turned and walked away. He had no idea why he'd suggested she come along, when her soft breasts and dark eyes were precisely what he was trying to escape. It was clear that the longer he stayed in close quarters with Molly, the greater the likelihood he would say or do something he absolutely should not. 

It was unnerving and gratifying to hear her footsteps racing after him, her little legs taking two steps for his every stride. He had a sizeable head start, though,  
and he stripped down and hit the water before she caught him up. 

The moment he was submerged she called his name. For a moment, he was under the water and it recalled to mind, in some inexplicable way, the sensation of being in her arms. It occurred to him then that the Mediterranean was far too warm for his purposes. He wondered vaguely if even the Arctic would manage to subdue his insistent physiology tonight. 

He didn’t care. There was no way on Earth he was having a go at her with Edmund in the room. 

He bobbed to the surface like a cork. When he opened his eyes, Molly was leaning over the railing, peering at him. As usual, she was three steps behind where he wanted her. With a sigh, Sherlock kicked off, stretched his arms and legs. If he could not have one form of exertion, he would settle for another. 

It should have made him feel better, but each stroke left him that much more excited. Molly should be in the water with him by now.

"Sherlock?" she called again.

"Join me," he said, then laughed, because yes, that's what he wanted - he wanted her to join him. Nothing had to happen; he would settle for simply having her in the water with him. 

"I can’t."

"Go back and get your swimming costume, if you insist." He had chosen it specifically because it would suit her. If she didn’t wear it now she wasn’t exactly going to wear it round her flat, was she?

"No, I mean I can't, as in, I can’t swim," she said. "I never learned."

"Oh," he said, suddenly feeling inept. "Right. This is like the circus, isn’t it?"

In the moonlight reflected off the water and the quiet lapping of the waves he could hear her exhale and see her nod. 

Sometimes he wondered what Molly Hooper would have made of herself had she been given the advantages of upbringing he took for granted. They’d have ruined her, in all likelihood. Conversely, he wondered what would have become of him had he been raised over a chippy. Perhaps he would have been better off. He could have run circles round Lestrade as a policeman. Then again, he might have wound up in prison. It was a stupid and singularly fruitless line of thought. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that cognac with Mycroft after the champagne was exhausted. 

The way Molly leaned over the railing gave him an exceptionally good view of her breasts and she looked so tempting, so unbelievably enticing, that he decided not to. Believe it, that was. It was surreal, this whole business. 

There was only one thing for it, then. If the mountain wouldn’t swim to Mohammed, then Mohammed would just have to leave the waters of the Mediterranean behind and join the mountain on the deck of Great Uncle Hildebrande’s boat.

Which is exactly what he did, though his body was more insistent than ever. Molly, still in her light summer dress, was as unbelievably lovely as ever. 

Bloody hell, maybe he was drunk, after all.

He took up the bottle of water someone had left on the deck that morning and rinsed away the salt-water as best he could - he wouldn’t recommend sea salt under the foreskin to any but the most devoted masochist. He raised his eyes; Molly was watching him intently. She blushed at being caught. He knew she admired him, physically, almost as much as she did intellectually. He would have chided her for being shallow, but she might not be above mentioning his interest in, among other things, her breasts. 

He smiled without meaning to, and took another step toward her.

"Oh fuck," she whispered, and put her hand over her mouth as if trying to shove the words back in. 

Sherlock was seized by something he hadn’t quite experienced before and so, could not name. It made his heart pound.

"Excellent suggestion," he said. "If you’re amenable, that is."

"Amenable?" Molly repeated as though she’d never heard the word before, and for a moment, it puzzled him. Her association with him notwithstanding, she was far from stupid. She was a doctor, for God’s sake. 

Oh, perhaps she thought it was a stupid question, because the next thing he knew she broke out in a broad smile and threw her arms round his neck.

He never knew how to respond to that. His first inclination was to simply stand there, which he knew was wrong. So he went with his fifth inclination - inclinations two through four being obviously flawed as well - and ran his hands from her full breasts to her waist to the bell of her hips, which was likely also wrong, but had the benefit of being extremely pleasant.

Molly made a noise which suggested that it hadn’t been a mistake, after all, and he ground his hips against hers.

She moaned again, lower. Oh, no; that was him.

Her dress was a source of frustration. He wanted skin, to touch skin, he wanted to feel her body against his body, not her damn dress.

"Why are you still clothed?" he asked her.

She didn’t seem to have an answer for that, looking as puzzled by her lack of nudity as he was. He reached behind her and unfastened the zip, allowing her dress to fall to her feet.

Oh, the brassiere. He watched as Molly removed it with as much grace and aplomb as she would use unwrapping a package of baps. Less, actually; she had a rather seductive way of twirling her forefinger whenever she opened a bag of bread.

It was interesting that she should be so bloody adept at sex and so inept at seduction. And a good thing it was, too, because if she could tease half as well as she could deliver, Molly Hooper would be deadly. Still, it wouldn’t hurt if she occasionally - very occasionally - showed off for him, a bit. When they were alone and he was in the mood for it, say. He wondered for a moment what Molly showing off would look like. Her throat, perhaps; Molly had an exquisite throat. Sometimes, when she was listening, she raised her chin just so, and it was rather distractingly attractive. Her wrists, too, were, well -

Her hands went to the waist of her knickers. 

"Stop," he said, grabbing her wrists without meaning to be so rough. "I want, um, that’s my favorite part." He hoped it didn’t sound as plaintive to her ears as it did to his. 

"You’ve a favorite part?" Molly asked, her nose wrinkled that way it did when she was confused. "And it’s taking off my knickers?"

Sherlock stared into her eyes until she turned her face away. "That came out wrong. I have a few favorite parts. Some of them involve your knickers. Some of them are in your knickers." 

Molly trembled and gooseflesh rose on her arms. Fascinating. 

"Was that not good?" he asked. "Should I not have said that?"

"How much have you actually had to drink?" 

"Five glasses of champagne and part of a cognac. I didn’t finish it, the cognac. It was never empty. None of which was my fault. Did you notice - Mummy was pushing champagne on people like she was force-feeding a goose? And the cognac was all Mycroft. He was so pissed Pip had to tuck him in on Aunt Angelique’s divan."

"Is this why you don’t usually drink? Because you get chatty?"

"'Chatty?'" Sherlock frowned. "I wouldn’t say chatty." 

"What would you say, then?" 

"Slow. Even more unfiltered than usual. Self-indulgent." 

"Yes." Molly nodded. "And chatty." 

"It just so happens," he said carefully, "that there are times when brevity is insufficient. Midnight, on the deck of a boat on the Mediterranean, with an achingly desirable woman, is one of those times."

Molly gaped.

"Never mind, I'm certain this is a dream. Chances are I’ll wake up next to Mycroft on the divan in the morning,"

"Say that again," Molly demanded.

"Chances are I'll -"

"No. Say ‘achingly desirable’ again." 

"Again? I never said ‘achingly desirable.’"

"You did," Molly insisted.

"I said no such thing. I merely thought it," he explained. "And thoughts are inadmissible." 

"Are they?" she asked, giving him an odd look. "What else do you keep to yourself?" 

Since, in all likelihood, it was a dream, he didn't answer. Instead, slipped his hand into her knickers. She was wetter and warmer than the Mediterranean. Her clitoris was swollen with excitement, and when he touched her, DreamMolly shivered like he was made of ice.

He pulled his hand out of her underclothes and stuck his fingers in his mouth. "You taste exactly like Chateau Cheval Blanc,'84," he said. Perhaps it had been more than one cognac.

"Do I?" she asked. 

"I think so, yes." 

"I see. And what else do you think?" 

"I think - I think Oncle Jean-Michel was laying it on a bit thick with that virgin martyr comparison, don't you?" He found himself circling Molly, using the movement as distraction so he could put his thoughts in order. "Large eyes and a button nose do give a certain air of adolescence, I'll grant that, but the effect is more Miyazaki than Alma-Tadema. Come to think of it, a singularly delicious sex does sound like a super-power straight out of a second-rate anime. That, combined with the changes in your shape since Edmund - you're all breasts and backside, now - it’s terribly distracting." 

He was perfectly aware he was going off on a tangent, but at times like this, he was powerless to stop either his brain or his mouth. "Such a common trope - the lonely beleaguered scientist, married to the work he loves above all else, innocently minding his own business. Then one night, an entrancing creature slips in through a window and - poof! - all logic and reason disappear, and suddenly life becomes difficult and frustrating and fantastically good and, I've just described my life, haven't I? When did my life become a pornographic cartoon?" 

"Sherlo -" 

"And when I say 'difficult' I mean hard, hard and complicated and messy, and I have responsibilities, now, real responsibilities, and I have something to lose for the first time in my life, and every day is terrifying and wonderful and it’s like bloody Christmas and the wheel of death at the same time, and, good Lord, believe me when I tell you motherhood has dramatically improved these breasts, well, your nipples could be darker, true, but all in all, they’re close to ideal, and your backside has always been exceptionally well-formed, and if I had ever imagined, Molly Hooper, that you could have ruined me so thoroughly, I, I - someone on this deck needs to shut up and I nominate me. All in favour? Good, it’s unanimous."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Molly was torn between the desire to hear what else she could get Sherlock to reveal, and the desire to fuck him until his back teeth rattled. Was it taking advantage to have sex while he was impaired? Or did it mean they would finally be functioning on the same level?

"Sherlock, please shut up before you say something hurtful and I don’t want to fuck you anymore, or ever again." 

He blinked at her, slowly, twice. "Repeat that," he demanded.

She scowled. "Shut up before you - " 

He looked embarrassed. "No, the, ah, the other part." 

Molly replayed the sentence in her mind. "Oh, the last bit, is it?" 

Lips pressed together, he nodded.

It was like that, was it? Hmm. True, it wasn't a word they used with each other, and certainly not as a verb. But that was easily fixed. 

Like the ingénue in a film, Molly straightened her shoulders and stuck out her chest. "I want to fuck you."

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He leaned down like he intended to kiss her, but instead, he rested his forehead against hers and stared hard into her eyes. His pupils were so dilated that there was only a thin rind of pale grey round them.

He cupped her face in his hands and rubbed his cheek against hers, just the slightest hint of stubble scraping her face. Molly could smell the cognac on his breath and the salt water on his skin and feel his big gorgeous body pressing naked against her. She could feel his heart pounding. 

"I want to fuck you," she whispered, "and Sherlock Holmes, I want you to fuck me."

He panted against her neck. Then, in a single motion, he pulled her down to the deck. Flat on her back, Molly could see the Virgo and Centaurus above her, and when she raised her head, she could see Sherlock kissing his way down her body. Lips and teeth and tongue, kissing, scraping, trailing between her breasts, pausing, oh God, to flick his tongue inside her navel. 

His eyes blazed and he ran his forefinger along the elastic of her knickers like the bloody tease he was. Finally, finally, he pulled them down, but slowly, so slowly, hands caressing her hips. The callused tips of his fingers brushed the inside of her thighs, making her breath snag in her throat. His hands made their way behind her knees, then to her calves, and then all the way down her legs until the her knickers were off. Then he tossed them overboard. 

He seemed no longer drunk, but instead, completely mad. By the time he ran his tongue along the crest of her hip bone, Molly was sure she had joined him.

Stars shone down at her from light years away and she could feel his tongue slide between her labia. After that, she couldn’t make out everything he was doing, but she knew one, then two long fingers were curved inside her and stars were exploding behind her now tightly closed eyes. It was nothing short of divine, as though every nerve in her body had be switched on, as though her brain was being squeezed, and Sherlock was licking and sucking and biting, and it all felt so good Molly thought she was going to pass out. 

Then, just short of what promised to be the most mind-bending orgasm, he stopped. It nearly killed her. And now she was going to have to kill him.

"My turn," he said gleefully. That boyish, enthusiastic chap he could be when the mood, or apparently the cognac, was upon him, appeared. He rolled onto his back. "There are condoms in my inside jacket pocket."

"Really? Planned this, did you?"

"'Course not." He shook his head. "I merely wished to be prepared, should this scenario present itself." 

Molly smirked. "I see." She tore the wrapping and slipped it on him, then grinned in satisfaction when he groaned in what was surely pleasure. She climbed onto him so quickly that she felt dizzy for a moment, but it was so good and he looked so incredibly sweet, she gave up all the thoughts of bloody mayhem that had passed through her mind earlier. She leaned forward to change the angle of penetration and the sensation went from very good to bloody New Year's Eve. 

Sherlock hissed through his teeth. His back arched then and his hips thrust so hard he managed, for an instant, to lift them both off the deck. They came back down with a thud, and the orgasm he had denied her earlier hit so fast and so hard that she felt cut in half by pleasure.

When her confusion ebbed away, she looked down to see Sherlock gasping, his eyes wide. Molly went very still, selfish enough to want him to last longer, selfish enough to want more. 

Not sure how to stave off his climax, she took his hands, so large and strong that they all but swallowed hers. Lips still parted, Sherlock raised his head and…and…oh! he kissed her and he ejaculated and he held her hands and in that moment with his tongue in her mouth and the feeling of the semen pulsing despite the barrier between he seemed the sweetest, most wonderful man in the world.

He rolled away for an instant and slipped off the condom, threw it into the sea where it joined her panties. Then he took her in his arms again, smothering her face with kisses. He never did that. Ever. She wondered why he was doing it now. 

"Stop. Thinking," Sherlock said, cradling her to his chest.

"What?"

"You’re obsessing over something. Stop it. None of this is happening, so such obsessing is pointless," he said authoritatively.

Befuddled, she lifted her head to look him in the face. "What?" 

"I assure you, this is merely a dream," he said lazily. "If it weren’t a dream, could I do this?"

And with that, she realized that he was, miraculously, still hard, or hard again, which would also fall into the miraculous category. She had, once again, forgot how strong he was, because he rolled her onto her back, took her ankles in one hand, and without so much as a by-your-leave, he was inside her once more. 

It was an odd position, because he was holding her legs together to the side, and she wasn’t getting any stimulation at all. She didn’t particularly like it. "It’s not a dream. And that’s not a good angle," she said as he thrust lazily.

"Um. Oh." He paused momentarily and opened her legs. "Better?" 

"Definitely." She wrapped her legs round his waist. "And I’m right. I'm the sober one here. I've not had anything to drink." 

"Not even with dinner? That red was excellent. That counts too, and you're tiny, I’m surprised you don’t drink from a thimble." He grinned wickedly. "Eat from doll dishes." 

Molly laughed, she couldn’t help herself, and so did Sherlock, but he didn’t stop pounding against her. The laughter died quickly.

She felt compelled to try to be responsible and talk sense to him, not that she wanted to. No, she wanted to go on like this all night, especially now that his thumb was on her clitoris, but she would feel guilty if she didn’t try again. "I could get another condom?"

"Must we?" he asked, his expression pained. 

She told herself it was fine. Eddie was still breastfeeding, and she hadn’t had her period yet. Odds were that tonight was not the night her ovaries would decide to start up again.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his speech punctuated by the motion of his hips. "Do you - do you want me?"

Did she want him? Was he serious? Staring up into those icewater-coloured eyes, she saw no other course of action. It was a lost cause; they were both lunatics. Molly took hold of his shoulders. "Fuck me," she whispered.

Sherlock’s hips stilled and he pulled out abruptly. She could feel the slow motion ripples of his ejaculate splashing all over her belly and breasts. She sat up on sheer reflex. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open and his head thrown back in ecstasy, His cock was as arched as his back as a final spray of ejaculate splashed her chin. 

It was thrilling and filthy and why why why was the most buttoned-up, repressed man she’d ever slept with also the dirtiest?

What she hadn’t expected was Sherlock’s fingers rubbing through his semen, spreading it over her skin. He touched his hand to her mouth, smearing it on her lips before he bent down and kissed her. His mouth slid down to her breasts, her belly, her everything, licking her clean. It was amazing. And filthy. God, filthier than anything she had imagined in her life. 

Another orgasm hit her hard as his mouth found its way back between her legs.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock woke up with the distinct sensation, both in his gut and in his mouth, of having eaten a rather bulky wool jumper. One that had been worn by a large, sweaty person for months on end. 

This was why he didn’t drink alcohol if he could avoid it. He had a certain resistance to narcotics, but it took so little alcohol to do this to him. It always had. 

He clearly recalled babbling, though he had no idea what he’d said. What he did remember, in vivid detail, was Molly trying to warn him that they needed a condom and him dismissing her objections. She was going to be unhappy when she woke. She was going to be unhappy with him. 

Had they been home, he would have gone straight up to his flat and immediately taken the first case offered. As it stood, he was on a boat docked at a private marina on the outskirts of Marseilles. Unless he wanted to leap overboard, there was nowhere to go. 

He seriously considered his options for a moment: they weren’t that far from shore. 

He climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Molly, who was, he noted, still naked. He cleaned his teeth and put on his pyjamas. He could have left the cabin, but that would have meant dealing with Phillipa, and if not Phillipa, then Mummy. He’d take his chances with Molly, thanks. In a somewhat less offensive state, he took a look at Edmund in his cot.

His son was awake and in need of a fresh nappy. He would have taken the boy to his mother, but he knew he owed some sort of penance for his behaviour the night before. This would be a start.

That dealt with, he carried Edmund to their bed. Molly could give Edmund one thing that he couldn’t; sustenance. Being a smart boy, Edmund was able to latch onto her breast without waking her. Smarter than Sherlock, apparently, because the instant Sherlock laid himself beside Edmund, Molly’s eyelids fluttered and she began to stretch. 

He considered for a moment whether he should pretend to be sleeping, but gave it up as a lost cause just as Molly opened her eyes and smiled. First at Edmund and then, phenomenally, at him.

Perhaps she didn’t recall what he’d said any more clearly than he did. But when she shut her eyes and burrowed back into the mattress, still smiling sweetly, the haze began to lift and he recalled every idiotic phrase. Worse, he was relatively certain Molly did as well. 

Oh God, anime? And the - the other? He’d actually asked her to say that? To repeat it? He wasn’t sure if he was more embarrassed that he was forward enough to ask, or that he was such a classic picture of repression that those specific words, in that specific order, aroused him so specifically. The best of all possibilities; both trite and sordid. If Freud were still alive, he would no doubt bludgeon Sherlock to death with the first phallic object at hand. 

Then he recalled what he’d actually done to his son’s mother. He felt more than a bit mortified. He only hoped she had the grace not to mention a word of it.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 4/14


	5. Chapter Five

**Sustain III: Obbligato 5/14  
** Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

With the exception of Mycroft, whom she simply could not trust, Molly liked Sherlock’s immediate family. Granted, they were insanely posh and ridiculously brilliant, and she always felt clumsy, uncouth, and tongue-tied in their presence. Hung-over, though, they were, individually and as a group, a great deal less overwhelming. It evened the playing field a bit, with them rendered slightly less quick and articulate. Add to that the memory of all the truly marvelous things Sherlock had done and said in the moonlight, and oh, Molly was having a wonderful morning. Now, if she could get over being seasick, life would be pretty close to perfect. She reckoned that there had to be something stupid happening to her at any given time, though, or the entire balance of the universe would be thrown off. 

The high-speed witty banter that generally accompanied meals was absent that morning. Gemma and Genevieve were still as chatty as two birds, but they either knew, or had been told, to keep their voices quieter than usual. Phillipa was drinking tea and giving a piece of dry toast the fish-eye. Violet was having a bit of bun and some coffee.

"Morning Aunt Mary, morning Edmund," Gemma greeted. Molly had finally learned to tell them apart.

"Morning." She sat next to Violet. 

"Oh, morning Edmund!" Genevieve said. "May I hold him, please?" 

"He's so clever. He looks as if he knows exactly what’s going on," said Genevieve, letting him take hold of her fingers. "He’s brilliant!" 

Molly handed Eddie over to his cousins, and he happily went. They were lovely girls, really.

"You look chipper," Pip said, dryly. 

"It's a lovely morning," Molly answered. She helped herself to tea and a banana. "No reason not to." 

"She means she didn't over-indulge like the rest of us," Violet said. 

"No, I didn't mean th-" 

"Don't apologize," Violet said. "You showed some sense; never apologize for that. Did you sleep well?" 

Pip shot her a look out of the corner of her eye. Molly had no doubt that it was meant to be a meaningful look, but she had no idea what the meaning was supposed to be. 

"Very well, thanks." 

"Where's Sherlock, dear?" 

"Still asleep," Molly answered. It wasn't a completely honest answer. She'd woken him, or tried to, after all three of them had nodded off in their bed, and suggested he come to breakfast; he'd mumbled something about battery acid, hot pokers, cattle-prods, bamboo skewers, and a guillotine into his pillow, then rolled over. She wasn't sure if he was rattling off threats or a list of items he thought might be used to put him out of his misery, but either way, she'd left him to it. 

Violet glanced at her watch. "Let him rest, dear. We don't have to be back at Angelique's for an hour or so, and he seems so exhausted." 

Pip snorted into her tea cup. It was a very un-Pip like sound.

Violet and Molly both looked at her. "Phillipa?" Violet said. 

Pip shook her head, covered her mouth. "Sorry. Nothing. Don't mind me. I just, I just recalled something funny that Jean-Pierre's boyfriend said." 

"The very tall one with the ridiculous hair?" Violet asked. 

Pip nodded. "Yes, him. He started telling Marie-Ange something about -" 

Molly stopped listening. It seemed rude, and was half in French, anyway. 

Gemma and Genevieve were playing 'Round and Round the Garden' with Eddie. By the way he was giggling, he obviously thought his cousins were at least as brilliant as they believed him to be. It was a pity they had to go back to Sherlock’s aunt’s house to have brunch and 'retrieve' Mycroft. She supposed that was just another part of the universe-balancing equation. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Gorgeous. 

A man introduced himself to her at Aunt Angelique's house, and for sixty solid seconds all Molly could think was 'gorgeous.' He stood between Mycroft and Sherlock in the front room, dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt, sunglasses perched on top of his head in a way that looked stupid on so many people, but looked photo-shoot perfect on him. He said something to her, then kissed the back of her hand. She was relatively sure he was speaking English, proper British English, but she hadn't the faintest idea what he was saying, because all she could think was 'good Lord, he is gorgeous.'

He was older, in that fantastic Cary Grant sort of way, all silver at the temples and twinkling eyes. His hair would have looked black if the sunlight hadn’t been streaming in behind him, highlighting the red beneath. He was easily the best looking man she had seen up close in her entire life. He looked like a film star with a swoony little grin and a jaw like a - 

Oh. She really ought to be listening. "I’m sorry, didn’t catch that," Molly said.

"Oh? Which part?" Mr. Gorgeous smirked. "Because I wasn’t exactly paying attention myself. I do tend to go on. Beautiful women do have that effect on me." 

"He said he’s my father, Tarquin Holmes, only when he said it, what little content he had to offer was sandwiched between a load of meaningless pleasantries and a few tired compliments he recycles any time he smells two X-chromosomes side by side." Sherlock's lip curled. It wasn’t an attractive expression in the least. It made him a bit ugly, really, and suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t nearly as irresistibly handsome as he’d been when she'd woken up that morning. 

"Oh! Your father. Of course, yes, pleased to meet you, Mr. Holmes." Molly spoke quickly so she wouldn't stammer. "Sherlock, um, talks about you all the time." 

Mycroft brows made a run for his hairline. Sherlock scowled and said, "I most certainly do not." 

"Sherlock!" Molly said, feeling herself blush. 

Tarquin laughed. "Oh, I’ve learned over the years not to take what Sherlock says too seriously." 

She watched, surprised, as, without asking, Tarquin reached out and took Eddie from Sherlock's arms. 

"What a fine boy," Tarquin said. He smiled that killer smile again. "Well done, Mary." 

Molly licked her lips and smiled back at him. Her pulse was racing and -

Mother of God; this was Sherlock’s father. The one he hated. And here she was, practically drooling on the man's shoes. She was a terrible, terrible person and just as much a slave to her hormones as Sherlock was always telling her she was. 

"He’s a Holmes through and through," Tarquin said, jostling Eddie a bit and making the baby laugh. "However did you manage it, Mary?"

"Um, manage what, exactly?" 

There was a glint in Tarquin's eye, but there didn't seem to be much humour behind it. "Manage to coax Sherlock out of - what's the term? - confirmed bachelorhood and into fatherhood? Into producing such a fine specimen of English boy?" He tickled Eddie’s belly and set him giggling.

Molly blinked. She couldn't have heard that right. Confirmed bachelorhood? Had Tarquin just suggested -

"I pursued Mary, actually," Sherlock said so casually it was alarming. "Relentlessly." 

"Is that so?" Tarquin sounded dubious.

"Now if we are all done posturing -" Mycroft said with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

"Of course I did," Sherlock answered. "' _I am the predator, not the prey._ '" 

"Still your Gran Honoria’s boy, I see," Tarquin said, ignoring his elder son and clapping the younger on the shoulder with his free hand hard enough to unbalance Sherlock a bit. Tarquin's eyes cut flirtatiously to Molly. "You must be something special, then, to warrant chasing." 

"She is," Sherlock said. Even though his voice and stance hadn't noticeably changed, Molly knew he was growing more tense by the moment and she wondered if there were some way she could get him away from there. 

"Oh?" 

"She is, among other things, the youngest pathologist on staff at one of the top hospitals in Britain," he said. 

"And who wouldn’t want a girl who keeps human livers next to the chocolate biscuits, eh?" Tarquin said. 

Mycroft massaged his forehead. "Please - " 

"Don't be foolish. She has other - skills - as well." Sherlock said it in such a way that - oh good God, was he trying to make her sound sexy? Surely Tarquin would see through that lie. 

Tarquin looked amused. "I wager she makes first-rate chips, too." 

She expected Sherlock to say something so unbearably nasty it left everyone in the room stunned, and left her embarrassed and feeling even less adequate than usual. Instead, Sherlock slipped his arm easily round her waist, like he’d done it a million times. He kissed her temple. "That's a wager you'd win, Old Man. Now hand over my son." 

There was a sudden shrill sound. "Grandfather!" It was Gemma. 

"You're here!" Genevieve shrilled right along. 

Molly had no idea what else the girls were saying, because it was all delivered at a shriek, but they raced for Tarquin, wrapping their arms round him and, in the process, Eddie. 

Pip and Violet followed. "Quin," Violet said, her voice controlled, but her eyes blazing. She did not look best pleased. 

"Hello, Violet, darling," Tarquin said, flashing that film star smile again. "Happy birthday. Hope I'm not too late to join the celebration." 

"Too late?" Violet demanded. "Too late?!"

"Have you changed your hair, love?" Tarquin said. "It suits you." 

The conversation turned both French and heated then, as Violet, Pip, the twins, and to a lesser degree, Mycroft, weighed in on the issue. 

Sherlock gave her a gentle squeeze. His father was catching hell from his mother, and he looked delighted. "That's our cue," he said, and in one swift motion, rescued Eddie from the fray, and headed toward the door. "I'm suddenly starving," he said to Molly. "Let's see if there's any of that brioche left." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sarah Sawyer sat in the hard plastic chair outside the neonatal intensive care unit waiting for the nurses to finish their rounds so she could hold him. He'd wiggled himself sideways, then completely round, so his head was where his feet usually were, and vice versa, twisting all his tubes and cords into a mess in the process. And because he could do it now, he did it as often as he could. The little show-off. 

"Evening, Dr Sawyer," Tanya said. Tanya was the most motherly of the NICU nurses, and the most down to earth, and Sarah liked her very much. "On your own tonight, are you?"

Sarah nodded. "John had a bit of an emergency."

Tanya frowned. "Oh dear," she said, writing something on a chart. "Life of a doctor, I reckon. Life with a doctor, too." 

Sarah thought about the phone call the night before, the set of John's jaw as he'd hastily packed his things and told her no, it wasn't Sherlock, and yes, it involved Sherlock, and no, it wasn't going to be dangerous, and yes, of course he'd be careful. He'd kissed her quite soundly, and said he'd only be gone a few days. 

_'It will all be worth it in the end,'_ he had promised. 

John always kept his promises.

"I suppose it is," she said. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock congratulated himself on his foresight in slapping on an extra patch before they'd left the boat that morning. He was inarguably hung-over, the sun was ridiculously bright, and his father’s voice was - his father’s voice.

He, Mycroft and their father stood half-way to the dock, far enough from the house so that they wouldn't be overheard, but, regrettably, not close enough to the water for Sherlock to throw his father in and then hold him under. 

"Get to the point," Sherlock snarled. "Why are you here when no one wants you?"

"My solicitor has asked a favour of me," Tarquin said, pausing under an awning. 

"Asked you to leave town, did he?" Sherlock said. "Clever move." 

"No, she asked a favour, and I owe her one, and I want your help," Tarquin answered. He pulled his-ever present Gauloise bleues from his pocket and lit one.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and moved upwind. Molly did not like is when he reeked of cigarette smoke, and had let it be known. "What's this got to do with me?" he asked. " _I_ didn’t sleep with her, therefore, _I_ owe her nothing."

"I didn’t know she was a lawyer when I bedded her. Not the first time, anyway. How was I to know she was a shark in girl’s clothing? Lawyers didn’t have tits like that back in my day." His father said, grinning amiably, first at Mycroft, then at Sherlock. "Well, not unless you count Walter Grynt-Thyne, but his chins sort of balanced that out." 

He was doing it to antagonize Sherlock, and Sherlock knew it. Nonetheless, it was working; Sherlock felt both antagonized and antagonistic. "Again, your point?"

His father took a long drag of his cigarette, then deliberately blew the smoke in Sherlock's direction. "An solicitor named Gareth Miller, who represented the surrogate mothers of some very well-placed people, has gone missing. Two days ago, his holiday home, Bermuda office, and the bank vault containing his safety deposit box all caught fire within an hour or so of each other." 

The mention of surrogacy turned a cog in Sherlock's head that had been waiting for the slightest nudge. He had assumed John's baby, as well as those who had been disposed of in the incinerator, had been the product of captive young women and sperm from who knew where. But now - 

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. One of Edmund's teething rings was in there, along with a magnifier and a knife. "There were one-hundred and thirty-eight-thousand, eight-hundred and forty-one fires reported in the greater London area last year. Three seems a small number, comparatively speaking." 

"Miller ran a very high-end double-blind sort of service," Mycroft said. "The parents never met the surrogates, and the surrogates never met the parents." 

That didn't sound right. His understanding was that most couples who chose surrogacy wanted to know the woman carrying their child, sometimes even to the point of having the surrogate mother become involved in the child's life. "To what end?" he asked. 

"Discretion. Deniability," Mycroft said in his usual carefully modulated tone. "There are some rather highly placed persons who do not deserve to be caught up in the scandal this matter has the potential to become."

"Deniability?" Sherlock asked. "Oh, so they can pretend a surrogate wasn't involved at all, of course. Ridiculous in this day and age."

"Be that as it may," Mycroft replied, "with Miller gone, the surrogates are rendered effectively incommunicado." 

Clearly, there was something he wasn't being told. Whatever it was, he realized he did not care. And his father was very much mistaken if he thought Sherlock was about to do him any favours, especially since the last favour he'd done Sherlock was staying out of sight for eighteen years. Further, Sherlock would be very surprised if the missing person in question was more than a stain removal problem at this point. "Not interested. Good-bye." He turned away.

"There is some indication that The Roman is involved in this matter," Mycroft said as if Sherlock should know or care who that might be. 

"The Roman?" Sherlock asked.

"A mercenary of the modern age. An intelligence broker, deals in blackmail on the side. He earned the name because of a predilection for crucifying people who get up his nose." Tarquin sniffed. "An arch-enemy, of sorts." 

Crucifixion? Just like the guards at the baby farm in Birmingham. Perhaps he was interested, after all. "Really?" Sherlock said. "I've been reliably informed people don't have arch-enemies in real life." 

"And which credulous fool told you that?" Tarquin asked. "This is a waste of my time. A helicopter is on its way. We leave within the hour. Now, excuse me." He turned toward the house. 

Sherlock gave his brother a hard look. "It's bad enough I have to bow and scrape to you, Mycroft, but even you can't expect -" 

Mycroft did something he never did, then - he reached out and caught his brother by the arm. "There's a reward for Miller's recovery," Mycroft said. "I know that's become a consideration for you, Sherlock. Furthermore, I am prepared to give you unrestricted access to your trust fund, in perpetuity, provided you solve the case to my satisfaction."

Sherlock looked down at the hand holding his forearm. From anyone else, such a gesture would be almost insignificant. This was, however, roughly the equivalent of Mycroft throwing himself at Sherlock's feet and begging for help. 

Mycroft cared about this matter, cared about it very much. One of his operatives? No, this was more than business or politics. Someone higher up, someone Mycroft genuinely did not want to see harmed. Royalty? A lover? Good God, a friend? 

As Sherlock pondered the matter, and considered what else he might extricate for his services, a high-speed boat pulled up to the dock. Two people disembarked. He recognized both immediately. 

"Ah," Mycroft said. "Finally." 

Sherlock shook his brother's arm away. "Mycroft, what in the hell is John doing here?" 

"You require a minder and I lack either the disposition or the desire to take on the task myself," Mycroft said, waving to his PA and making his way rapidly in that direction. "I thought you’d be pleased." 

"Pleased? I told you -" 

"Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous. If John didn't want to be here, he would not be." 

"Yes, because you are above kidnapping or coercion."

"I am above neither," Mycroft said, "and, fortunately, I needed neither. Now, apologize so you can get to work."

He watched as John and Mycroft's PA walked toward them. John had his familiar suitcase in one hand, folder of tickets in the other. He didn't look as annoyed as he should have done. Why? 

"Ah, there you are, my dear," Mycroft called to his PA. "Come, come, let's go up to the house and get those papers taken care of, shall we?" He turned to Sherlock. "Play nicely." 

Sherlock curled his lip in reply.

"So," John said, when they were face to face.

"So," Sherlock replied. 

"Nice house. Nice boat." John took off his sunglasses, dropped them in his breast pocket, looked around. "Nice - nice France."

Sherlock sniffed. "The French seem to like it." 

John shrugged. "Yeah, but what do they know?" 

Sherlock could not entirely suppress his grin. "I thought you'd sworn off hopeless cases, John."

"Glutton for punishment," John said. He’d put on half a stone in the six weeks since Sherlock had last seen him. The sedentary life clearly did not suit him.

"I believe the term is 'masochist,'" Sherlock said. 

"And who'd know better about that, eh?" 

They stood awkwardly for a moment, neither quite looking at the other. "Look, John," Sherlock said at last, "I don't know what my brother has threatened you with or offered you -" 

"Nothing," John said. "Well, expenses and a per diem, but nothing beyond that. Not a peerage or anything." 

Sherlock blinked at him. "Then why have you come?" 

"He said the magic word, didn't he? 'Dangerous.' What's a masochistic bloke like me meant to do?" 

"John -" 

"He said you'd need my help. I know, I know, I'm an idiot, and you've never needed my help, but well, first time for everything, yeah?" John smiled. 

Sherlock considered. All might not be forgiven, but John was willing to joke with him; that was a good sign. 

"Ah, this is our sniper, is it?" Sherlock heard his father's voice boom from behind him. 

"John Watson, allow me to present Tarquin Holmes, Lord Halsbury, and my father." 

John's brows shot up. "That explains a bit," John muttered under his breath. "Sir," John said as he shook Tarquin's hand. 

"Quin, please, Dr Watson," The Old Man said in that way of his. 

"And please call me John." 

John was probably already charmed. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Molly wondered what all the noise was about.

Sherlock’s Aunt Angelique and Uncle Jean-Michel were sitting across the broad kitchen table from Violet and Phillipa. Molly sat at the end of the table, Eddie on her lap, struggling to be heard over the sudden wall of sound. Gemma and Genevieve came from wherever they had been playing and stood in the doorway.

"What's that?" Genevieve asked. 

"Helicopter," Angelique said. 

"Helicopter?" Molly asked. "Here?" 

Angelique patted Molly’s arm. "Expect anything when Tarquin Holmes is involved, non?" 

Jean-Michel nodded. Phillipa glared at a bit of brioche and Violet stirred her coffee with murderous intent.

Intrigued, Molly stood and peered out the window. A helicopter had just set down on the water close to the dock. Sherlock and his father and another man -

"Is that John?" she asked no one in particular.

"John?" Violet asked.

"John Watson?" 

Violet shook her head. 

"Who?" Phillipa asked.

Molly looked at her, puzzled. "Sherlock’s former flatmate? His friend?" 

More blank looks. 

It never occurred to Molly Sherlock’s family wouldn’t be familiar with John. Was Sherlock really so obsessively private about everything? "Eddie’s godfather? You must have met him at the christening."

"Oh, of course, of course," Violet said. "He's married to the pretty doctor, Sarah, yes?" 

Molly nodded. "Yes. Him. John Watson." 

"I think we all assumed they were your friends, Mary," Phillipa said.

"Oh?" 

Phillipa shrugged. "Married, both doctors, both, well, sane, for lack of a better term. And it's not as if Sherlock has any friends." 

Molly frowned. "He has friends. Of course he has friends." 

This seemed to be news to Sherlock's sister-in-law. "Does he really?" 

"Lots of them," Molly said. "John, Mike, Angelo, Tommy, Greg, and, well, he and I, we were friends. Before."

Phillipa wrinkled her nose. "What do they do? Go to the pub? Play footie?" 

"No," Molly answered, although she very briefly tried to imagine it. "Mostly they solve cr-" 

Molly's words were cut off by a sharp, high-pitched squeal, and Eddie tried to wiggle out of her arms at the sight of John. 

"Eddie!" John exclaimed as he took the boy from her arms. "Hullo, Molly," he said and kissed her on the cheek. "All right?" 

"All right," she answered. "John, why-?" 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "May I have a word?" he said. 

Molly's stomach dropped. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: 

Sherlock stood in the cabin, repacking his bags. Molly sat on the bed beside his suitcase, silent, uneasily twisting the ring his mother had given her round and round and round. The ring had been meant for larger hand; Molly was a bit overpowered by the size of the stone. The colour suited her well enough, he supposed, though a sapphire would have been better. Were he choosing a ring, he would chose a sapphire. 

Not that he would ever be choosing her a ring. Nor would she ever accept a ring from him, even if he did. After his behavior the previous night, it would be a miracle if she allowed him to pass her the salt.

Molly looked at him then, with a look of - what was it? What was she thinking? He couldn't tell. 

"So why is John here?" she finally asked. 

"Mycroft," he said. He checked the drawers to make certain he hadn’t left anything behind. 

Molly pulled Edmund up from the bed and into her lap, a purely defensive move on her part, he could tell. Edmund had a teether in either fist, one to chew on, one in case he dropped the first. His son already had more forethought than most of Scotland Yard. "Must you go?" she asked. "I mean, is it really necessary? Does it have to be today?"

"Yes." 

"You couldn't, I mean, wait a few days? Or -"

"No." 

"Oh," she said, sounding defeated, sounding hurt. 

This was not the way he wanted this conversation to go. 

He took a deep breath. "I haven’t a choice in this matter," he said. "Mycroft has sworn me to secrecy, but he believes this may concern that child, the one who was born at John's surgery." 

"Oh?" 

"I am not certain, but I think we may find some answers," he continued. "I don't think John is aware of that aspect, though, and it would be best not to mention it yet." 

"Right," she said. "Well, that’s different, isn’t it?" 

He stopped arranging his socks and looked at her. "Is it?" 

She nodded, running her fingers through Edmund’s hair, ruining all the work Sherlock had done earlier. "Yes, of course it is. I thought you were just, um, never - never mind." She looked away. 

Then he worked it out. She thought he was just off on a lark. Just shirking his responsibilities. Just running out after his appalling behavior. Just being Sherlock. 

He’d intended nothing of the sort. He would just as soon stay and do his penance. He wasn’t looking forward to being trapped with Mycroft and The Old Man, even if it turned out there was a fairly terrible and convoluted crime involved, which he expected not to be the case. And while things were not as dire with John as he'd feared, it was hard for Sherlock not to wonder how little it would take to destroy the friendship between them once and for all. 

He had meant to make good with Molly, too, whatever that might entail. He had been working out how to do just that when The Old Man arrived and blew everything to Hell. Sherlock had transgressed. Drunken brute that he was, he had misused the woman he was meant to care for. And it wasn’t the first time; twice now since their son was born he’d had unprotected sex with Molly, without her express, informed consent. It was a wonder she could even smile at him. She’d seemed actively pleased at the time, true, but had he been in her shoes, he certainly wouldn’t have been. She was a fool to give a man like himself the time of day, much less a child, and additional affection should have been out of the question. 

And to risk a second pregnancy with someone like him? 

He looked at the box of Boy’s Own Condoms wedged behind his shaving kit. He pulled them out, setting them on the bed near her hand. "Perhaps you should take charge of these," he said uncomfortably.

"If you like." Molly moved them out of Edmund’s reach. "You won't ne -" She stopped. 

"Won't what?" 

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing, nothing, nothing, and yes, I'm repeating myself. I'll stop." 

Sherlock considered thirty-two distinct conversational alternatives. Then he exhaled, because the only other choice was exploding lungs.

"I should start packing, anyway," she said. 

"Why? You've another four days here."

"Well, you’re going, so we should head back to London." Molly bent to retrieve the teether Edmund had just dropped, offering Sherlock an unobstructed view of her breasts. It was not an offering he'd refuse. He was his father’s son, in tendency, if not in deed. "I'll have to find out how and when -"

He righted himself. "Stay," he said, not meaning to bite his lip. "With Mummy."

"She’s your mother, no matter how nice she is to me on your account. It would be dead awkward for me to stay. I'd feel like I was, I mean, we were, imposing."

Sherlock frowned at her. She was so stupid at times. Did he really need to explain that, by giving birth to Edmund, Molly had done more to please Violet in a single afternoon than Sherlock had managed in his entire life?

He took the dirty teether from Molly and handed her the clean one from his pocket. In the process, he looked down the front of her dress again. 

"It will be difficult for you to travel on your own, Molly. It will be easier with help. Mummy and Pip and even the twins - it would be. It would - Please," he said experimentally, not as a demand but in the form of a request. "Please stay." 

Molly chewed her bottom lip. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, absolutely. She loves having Edmund about." 

"All right." She moved Edmund to her other side. 

His bag was packed. It was time to go if they were going to make Paris in time to catch the flight to Hamilton, and the sooner he got to Hamilton and solved this wretched case, the sooner he could return home. He ought to say something, to assure her now that there would be no repeat performances of last night’s debacle, pledge that he would not take blatant advantage of her again, be sure she understood that he was sorry. Yet, with Edmund in the room, it felt wrong. 

At that moment, John fortuitously stuck his head through the open door. "Sherlock?" he said. "Your brother asked me to oh, hullo, Molly, sorry, didn't see you there, your brother asked me to let you know we’re on something of a schedule. Hey there, Eddie!" John waved his fingers and Edmund broke into a broad, two-toothed grin. 

Sherlock reached down, scooped Edmund out of his mother’s arms, and handed him to John. "Tell my brother I will be on the dock in five minutes. Will you excuse us for a moment? Wonderful, thank you." He shook Edmund’s hand before he shut the door.

He turned to Molly, and stood for twenty-three long seconds, grasping for the proper words. He had no idea how to begin. He took her hand, so small in his. He looked at the ring she wore, his grandmother’s ring. Molly’s ring, now. 

He would endeavor to give her the respect she deserved and not behave as though he were some great dumb animal pawing at her skirt, not some garden variety brute stumbling home from the local pub to take his aggression out on the poor, long suffering receptacle of his misery. 

"Molly, I -" he finally began, but she interrupted him by taking his face between her hands.

"Don’t walk in front of any cabs," she ordered, and pressed her mouth to his. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her breasts. He couldn’t help but groan at the sensation. 

Her tongue slipped forward into his mouth and it occurred to him that, all in all, cabs were the very least of his worries.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 5/14


	6. Chapter Six

Sustain III: Obbligato 6/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

 

For reasons best known to himself, Sherlock was being as difficult he had it in him to be. In Mycroft’s experience, that was very difficult, indeed. He demanded his Strad, swearing he could not work a case in such proximity to The Old Man without it. Mycroft, well aware of the Old Man’s ability to jangle his little brother’s nerves, offered no resistance whatsoever. He had, in fact, anticipated the likelihood, and sent one of his people to bring it to Heathrow and be sure to meet their flight. It was waiting when they reached the airport.

Had that appeased him? No. Sherlock had also objected to his passport photo, one that had originated as a police mug shot during his last great drug binge. And then he objected to the alias on his passport. Apparently 'Hubert' was intentionally ridiculous - a fine distinction for a man called 'Sherlock.' 

Moreover, his little brother felt he was meting out some sort of punishment by exchanging his first class ticket for one beside the rear lavatory. If this was meant in some way to punish Mycroft, the effect was decidedly under-whelming.

The service was frightfully inadequate. He couldn’t seem to get a second glance seated next to his father. He did his level best to ignore the stewardess repeatedly buckling and unbuckling The Old Man’s safety belt, giggling all the while.

Mycroft turned to John, seated across the aisle. "Would you be so good as to take this dossier on to my brother? He should familiarize himself with the file before we reach Hamilton." 

He pulled the packet of All-Sorts from his pocket. He had been planning on saving those for later in the flight, but now was as good a time as any. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Unaided by any flight attendant at all, John unbuckled his seat belt, tucked the brown paper envelope under his arm, and made his way to the rear of the plane. Sherlock was at the very back, his violin case balanced across his knees, and a swath of seats in front and to the side of him unoccupied. John had seen that before. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but in a confined space like a plane, Sherlock tended to deduce his neighbours to the point that they put on their headphones or, if possible, moved away. The flight was less than one third full, so there was plenty of room for them, in this instance, to run. 

"Hullo," John said, flapping his elbow to indicate the folder tucked against his body. "From your brother. He wants to be sure you’ve read it before we land."

"In only nine hours? How will I manage?" Sherlock asked.

"Only supposed to be an eight hour flight, isn't it?" 

"There’s a storm at sea, approximately 35 degrees 22 minutes north. The pilot is going to have to go out of his way to avoid it taking us rather far off course and thus behind schedule."

John threw himself into the seat beside him. "So, umm, Eddie’s getting big," he said.

Sherlock snorted and scowled, as though the entire conversation was beneath him.

"Come off it. I know you’re mad for that child," John said, leaning back in his seat. "Anyone who has seen you with him knows it. No need to pretend."

"I'm not pretending, or suggesting, otherwise. As conversational gambits go, it's a weak one." 

"'Yes, John, he is getting big,' John said in his SherlockVoice. "'Thanks for noticing.'" 

"Fine." The voice that answered John was smaller somehow, less brash less self assured. "Edmund is growing quickly. He should start walking soon, before he’s too large for his mother to carry."

"How is Molly doing, by the way?" John said, making himself comfortable. 

Sherlock reacted as if someone had dropped a bucket of ice down his trousers. "You saw her, why didn't you ask her?" 

John couldn’t help but laugh a bit. "Because that's what you do. You ask after a mate's wife and kids." 

Sherlock scowled. 

"Girlfriend and kids?" John amended. "Girlfriend and child?" 

Sherlock twisted round in his seat to face John, suddenly in full-seethe. "I have explained this before, but let me make this unequivocally clear, once and for all - Molly is not my girlfriend."

"She isn't?" John asked. "Isn't she, really?" 

"She isn’t," Sherlock replied. "Really." He clutched his violin case to his chest.

"Right," John replied. "Sorry. Christ, I didn’t mean to suggest she likes you, or God forbid, you like her. It's not like you share a house, have a child, or spend most of your free time in her flat in your dressing gown. Although, you know, I could have sworn that was her there, with your family, in France. Guess whatever's going on between you and your baby-mama is your business, eh?" 

Sherlock took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. John knew it was a gesture Sherlock made only when he was roiling with fury and trying to contain it. "Would you please vacate that seat? The owner wishes to use it."

John scanned all the passengers giving Sherlock a wide berth. "I don’t see anyone."

Sherlock held the violin case aloft. "The seat belongs to the violin. Now move."

John stood. Why had he agreed to this? Ah, yes, because Mycroft Holmes was always a good man to have in your corner. As he made his way back to his seat, he reminded himself to keep that in mind.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: 

After dinner, Molly, Eddie, Phillipa, Violet, Gemma, and Genevieve were back on the boat, below deck in the lounge. Violet and the twins were playing cards, some complicated thing that involved two full decks and pens and paper. The game was played in French, though, and Molly had no idea what it was.

"I suppose you’re used to this sort of thing, Mary?" Phillipa said at last. She'd been flipping through magazines, but not really reading them, as far as Molly could tell.

"Sorry?" Molly said. She and Eddie had been reading his favourite board book -  
I Spy Spooky Mansion - and Molly wasn't entirely sure which 'this sort of thing' Phillipa had in mind. 

"Taking off at a moment's notice for his, well, 'work' I suppose," Phillipa said. "I do wish he'd done something about the DVD player before he dragged Mycroft off investigate that bank fire or whatever it was." 

"Um," Molly said. Yes, she was used to Sherlock running off. But why did Phillipa think Sherlock was dragging Mycroft off and not the other way around? And what was Sherlock supposed to do to the DVD player? 

"And honestly, why take Mycroft? What's he going to do, push paper at it?" 

"Don’t blame Sherlock," Violet said over the fan of her cards. "This is Quin, all Quin, I’d stake my life on it. I haven’t seen the man since the last time I asked him to sign the divorce papers, which is five, no six years ago, and he ruins my birthday with some of his usual stupid cloak-and-dagger nonsense."

"Well, it’s not ruined," Phillipa said decisively, reminding Molly uncomfortably of Sherlock. "You’ve still got Mary and me and the children and Monaco isn’t far. You adore Monaco and without those two wet blankets, we’ll have loads of fun. Mary, you’re my witness. I swear, I am not letting anyone ruin Violet’s birthday, full stop." 

Molly swallowed hard. Gambling, on anything, made her feel cold, clammy, and slightly wobbly. As far as she knew, Monaco had little else to offer. She'd been raised to be careful with her money, and throwing it away on games designed to beat you was not her idea of fun. It didn't seem very child-friendly, either. 

"We could go to the aquarium," Gemma said. "Edmund would love the fish." 

"And the fort," Genevieve added.

"Oh, yes, and that beach we went to two years ago." Gemma said. "Remember the shells we found?" 

"Perhaps we could do that," Violet said. 

Just then, the captain appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Holmes?" he said, looking grave. Both Violet and Phillipa looked up.

He turned to Phillipa. "The engine, Ma’am. There’s an electrical problem." 

"Fix it," Phillipa said. "Or have it fixed. This boat belongs to my grandfather, but I am authorized to sign for it, if that's the issue."

"No, Ma'am," he replied. "It's going to need to be stripped down and overhauled. We aren't dead in the water, but it's a close thing."

"What happened?" Phillipa asked.

"Not clear," the captain said. 

Phillipa slapped her magazine down on the coffee table. "Damn! I should have known Grandfa was lying when he said he'd had everything checked out." 

"Calm down, Pip." Violet laid her cards face down on the card table. "There's no reason we can't stay another day or two while it's repaired. Angelique won't mind, or we can got to a hotel if you'd rather." 

"I'm afraid it's going to be more than a few days," the captain said. "It's rather an exotic sort of engine. It will be a week, if we're very lucky." 

"Right, of course." Phillipa sighed. "Well, get on that, please, Captain, and let me know where things stand as soon as possible." 

"Yes, Ma'am," he said with a sharp nod, and left. 

"I'd hate to put Angelique out for a week or more," Phillipa said. "I know she won't mind, but it's a bit crowded as it is. I suppose we could stay in a hotel." 

"I have a better idea," Violet said. "Much better. Why don’t we hop on the train, go to my house, and do everything my boys hate - soppy films and silly games - a proper pyjama party!" 

"That sounds fun!" Genevieve said. 

"Edmund won't mind, will he, Aunt Mary?" Gemma asked. "He won't have to have a pedicure or anything silly like that." 

"I’ll dig out the old photographs and we can go through them. Mary should see how like his father Edmund is. You don’t have anything pressing in London, do you, Mary?" 

Another awkward situation. Her desire was to beg off. But Sherlock had asked her, very specifically, to stay with his mother for a few days, so that she and Eddie could spend time together. And Eddie had only one grandmother, didn't he? 

And the offer of Sherlock's baby pictures? How was she supposed to resist that? 

"No, nothing," Molly said. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John hadn't been on a case with Sherlock in nearly two months, but five minutes in the smoky, soggy, charred Bank of Bermuda women's lav and it was as though no time had passed at all. They'd arrived in the early evening, Bermuda time, and gone straight from the airport to the bank, time zones be damned. John reckoned he had another four or five hours before hunger, thirst, and jet lag did him in. 

"The arsonists went into the vault through the ceiling above the third stall," Sherlock said. He was standing on the partially melted counter, surveying the ceiling very carefully. "I had expected it to be the work of three men, but now I believe it was only two." 

John looked at the ceiling tiles himself. If anything, the ceiling above what would have been the third stall looked a bit more burnt than the others. Was that it? It was more burnt, which meant what? That someone had pushed it aside so they could access the ceiling crawl space? Had they failed to close it properly afterwards? So it had more ventilation than the rest of the ceiling and so burned a little more intensely? That made sense. "Professionals?" he asked.

"Professionals, yes, professional arsonists, unlikely," Sherlock replied. "As you've observed, they left clear signs of their entrance and exit. True professionals take more pride in their work." 

John felt his own tiny rush of pride at having been able to follow Sherlock's deductions. "They destroyed whatever it was they came to get rid of." 

Sherlock leapt down with the grace of a gazelle and headed for the door. "Probably not. More likely they took whatever it was they were after with them, then destroyed decoys in their stead." 

John nodded. "That way, the authorities would waste time trying to piece together anything that didn't completely burn, even though it would be pointless. Makes sense. Did you get anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head, brushed soot off his jacket. "Not yet. I'll have more when I have something to compare this site to. Come along." 

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Miller's office is just down the street," Sherlock said, all but his head already out the door. "Stop dawdling." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

"How are you feeling, Mary?" Sherlock's mother asked when Molly returned from the train car's tiny washroom. Eddie sat on Violet's lap, teether in one hand, Violet's thumb in the other, a look of concentration on his face, as if he were trying to decide which to chew on first. "Any better, dear?" 

As usual, Molly had no idea what to say. She had never been motion sick on a train before. Perhaps she had an inner ear infection developing. She hoped whatever it was, she hadn't passed it on to anyone. "A bit woozy, still. I think I'll live?" She hadn't meant to make it into a question, but she had.

Phillipa's eyes flicked from her book to Molly and back again. She was pretending to read, but it was clear she was really watching Molly, no doubt waiting to see what she would do wrong now. Molly always felt like she was one wrong move from having Phillipa clap her hands to summon a contingent of burly bodyguards who would escort Molly, and all her inferior belongings, off the premises. 

Molly looked at the twins. They were either playing a different card game, or this was some variation on the one they'd been playing the whole trip. "Perhaps I could play the next round?" She'd wanted to ask all week. "What game is that, anyway?"

"It's called Celestine," Genevieve said.

"I don't think I know that one," Molly said.

"That's because they invented it," Phillipa said. "I wouldn't get involved if I were you, Mary. They're the only ones who know the rules. They've been working on it for - what is it, girls, five years now? And the rules are always changing. That's why no one plays with them."

"That's not true," Gemma said. "Grand-mere plays with us all the time."

"That's only because you go easy on her," Phillipa said.

"Uncle Sherlock plays, too," Gemma said. 

Molly blinked at that. Until recently, he'd referred to the twins either as 'Mycroft's spawn' or, when being kinder, 'those clones.' She wasn't sure he was aware they had individual names. "He does?" 

"Once," Gemma said. "We were at Grand-mere's during a blizzard at Christmas, three years ago." 

"He beat us." Genevieve said, head down. The way the girl said it made it sound as if he'd actually hit them with something.

Gemma nodded. "'No point playing a game you can't win'; that's what he said."

That sounded like Sherlock, all right.

"He worked out the rules ever so fast," Gemma added. 

"Then gave us ideas for new ones," Genevieve said. "Good ideas for new ones." 

That sounded like Sherlock, too. 

"We'll go easy on you, though, Aunt Mary, like when we play with Grand-mere," Genevieve offered.

"I don't think your Aunt Mary is feeling well," Violet said. "You can teach her when we get to the house and she's feeling better." 

"That might be best," Phillipa said, giving Molly a sideways glance. 

"I've some plain biscuits in my handbag, Mary," Violet said. "That might help settle your stomach, dear."

She was right; the biscuits did help. Some, but not enough. 

Molly had never been more grateful than she was when the train pulled into St. Pancras and everything stopped moving. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Tarquin Holmes had left his family in England in 1984 and immediately relocated to Bermuda. For that reason, and that reason alone, although he had traveled extensively, Sherlock had never been to Bermuda. From what he had seen since they landed, he hadn't missed anything. It was a sort of travel brochure nightmare of low slung pastel buildings and rotund tourists on holiday. Beaches. Palm trees. An excessive number of mopeds. As insipid and cloying, and no doubt as false, as The Old Man himself.

Unlike the bank building, which had very localized, if very thorough, fire damage, Gareth Miller's offices had been burnt to hollowed-out ruins. The blaze had been ruled an electrical fire by the local constabulary, which was par for the course. Incompetence, laziness, and corruption - some things were unchanging the world over.

There was little identifiable debris; the no doubt copious amount of paper the office once held had gone up first and left very little behind. The plastics had boiled to porous globules and toxic gases, and there was little left of the heavy oak furniture but a few blackened stalactites, indicating an intense blaze. 

Oh, that was interesting. Sherlock bent down to retrieve an odd bit of something the size of a fist glinting from the ground. 

Glass. Same kind he'd noticed at the bank.

So, the fire was in excess of 600C. Something a bit hotter and quicker than the arsonist's go-to accelerant of petrol, then. Jet fuel, obviously.

He wiped the object with his handkerchief and withdrew his magnifier.

Clear glass with a metallic occlusion of some sort. Noteworthy.

Then he examined the soot on his handkerchief. Also noteworthy. Perhaps, he thought, the most noteworthy find thus far.

"Well, are you going to say anything?" John had a long line of soot on the right side of his hideous 'Hawaiian' shirt and an exasperated expression. "Anything at all?"

Sherlock had too many thoughts to reply. He shook his head.

John sighed. "So, the house now, yeah?" 

Sherlock only nodded.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Halfway into the second hour of watching Sherlock pick through the burnt remains of what was once very nice but was now a very charred beach house in absolute silence, John sighed. It was two a.m. by his body's reckoning. He was jet-lagged. He was hungry. He was fed up with the semi-silent treatment. "Sometimes," he said, "I forget how not right in the head you are." 

He was surprised to see Sherlock flinch.

"I very much doubt that," Sherlock said, acknowledging John's existence for the first time since they had been at the bank. "And where would that get me, being right in the head," he said peevishly, "besides not solving this case?"

John scratched the back of his neck. He hadn't meant to hit a nerve. Well, all right, he had, a bit, but not the way he apparently had done. It was an honest observation. It was funny, too, how quickly he forgot that, despite the trademark callous disregard for other people's feelings, Sherlock Holmes could be as touchy as a teenaged girl.

"There's more to life than cases, Sherlock," John said. "You've worked that one out by now."

"Oh God, are we going to do each other's nails now? Like something with sparkles, would you?" Sherlock sniffed, lifted his chin, and drew himself up as tall as possible, stared down his nose at John. 

"Look, mate, if you don't want me here -" 

"Shut up and tell me what you smell," Sherlock demanded. 

Classic Sherlock move, John thought. Contradictory directions. Distraction. Deflection. "Excuse me?" 

"What. Do. You. Smell?" 

John sniffed once, twice. "Sea air?" 

"Precisely. Because the crime scene is three days old and open to the elements." Sherlock inhaled theatrically. "Unlike the first two arson scenes, which in comparison to this one reeked strongly of highly refined kerosene, also known as Jet-A."

"Jet fuel." John said. "Okay. What's that mean?"

"That my brother's suspicions are correct. The Roman is behind this." 

"Which Roman is that?" John asked. 

"The Roman," Sherlock said. "Also known as Jerry Seppurru, late of Croydon, Wesley Minnick of Cork, Georghiou Stanescu of Hampton, and three separate Johnsons; George, Jules, and Stephen of Shropshire, Ealing, and Hertfordshire, respectively. Or, I strongly suspect, none of those." 

"Right." John nodded. "So this Roman, he's what?" 

"Extortionist, murderer, assassin, thug."

"A very naughty boy, then," John said. "And you know this, how?" 

"Private planes and Romanian swill." Sherlock said it as if these things were both self-evident and self-explanatory. He fired off a quick text, then strode away from the building and towards the roadway.

"Where are we going now?" John asked, racing to catch up with him.

"The best restaurant in the nearest hotel," Sherlock said. "I need to speak with Mycroft." 

"Oh good," John said. "I'm starving."

"Which is exactly why we are meeting him in the best restaurant in the nearest hotel." 

They walked in silence for a few moments. John realized he had perhaps another hour of go-go-go in him before he flat-out collapsed. If nothing else, some ice water and several cups of hot, strong coffee might extend his time until all-systems shut-down by an hour or two. But he'd have to sleep, sooner rather than later. 

"What are you calling him?" Sherlock said, looking straight ahead. 

John shook his head. "What? Who? The Roman?" 

"No. Of course not. I meant the boy. That - baby." Sherlock kept his eyes focused straight ahead. "I presume you intend to adopt him, and I understand naming them helps with the bonding process."

John looked hard at Sherlock's profile, wondering how and when he'd worked that one out. And come to that, why. "How'd - " 

"Mycroft must have offered you something," Sherlock said. "Something that would make having to be in proximity to me worthwhile." 

John frowned. "What? Proximity? You're my friend -"

"You asked me to delete you, you'll recall," Sherlock said. "Ordered me to do so, in fact." 

John nodded. Sherlock-the-teenaged-girl was making another appearance, and so soon. "Yes, I did. And a piss poor job you've made of it, too." When Sherlock said nothing, John continued, "I was angry, I was frustrated, and you were a convenient target. I was an arse, and I'm sorry, yeah? I'm sorry. And we haven't decided, not formally, but we're thinking Christopher, maybe, if it comes to that, which it probably won't." 

"Why wouldn't it?" Sherlock asked. "You and Sarah are both staid, respectable, middle-class professionals with a history of infertility issues -" 

"Yeah, ta, I almost forgot that bit - " 

" - there's no father to make a claim, the mother is a late Jane Doe, so it should be a simple matter of - "

"Yeah, it should," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "but there are other matters." 

"Such as?" 

"They call them 'cultural considerations.' Sarah and I are staid middle-class infertile white professionals. They like to try to match infants to families with a similar ethnic background." 

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt ready with a sarcastic assessment, but seemed to think better of what he was going to say. After a moment he said, "Given that child's apparent ethnic diversity, that might prove difficult." 

"Might, yeah," John agreed. "At any rate, the wheel of bureaucracy is not turning quickly. More like the hamster on the wheel is dead, actually. That baby'll be finished uni before they settle on his care."

"I see," Sherlock said. 

They turned a corner. Before them stood an opulent hotel. John was sure he was underdressed to even enter the lobby, much less dine in the restaurant of such a place. At this point, though, the allure of food was overwhelming; he'd settle for a packet of crisps and a bottle of Orangina while perched on the kerb. 

"You're fine," Sherlock said as he started across the road. "They're used to tourists, even ones in impressively horrible shirts."

"Yeah, cheers." 

"And, this meal's on Mycroft." He grinned. "Be sure to order the most expensive item on the menu." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 6/14


	7. Chapter Seven

**Sustain III: Obbligato (7/14)  
** Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

When her boys were young, Violet had been too busy trying to balance the guilt over neglecting her musical career with the guilt over neglecting her children to spend any time organizing photographs. Then, suddenly, they weren't children anymore, and it seemed as though Sherlock had gone overnight from being a problem child to a troubled adult, and the prospect of poring over old pictures had been too painful. Sherlock had never seemed as calm and settled as he did now, so she hadn't any excuse left. It was a relief.

Pip was perched on the window seat, sleeping Edmund in her arms. Mary sat on the floor with Gemma and Genevieve on either side of her, mesmerized by the most awful picture of teenaged Sherlock in his school uniform. He'd nearly reached his adult height and was so thin he looked like a medical poster for rickets. And the straw boater did not suit him. It was no wonder Sherlock had an aversion to hats as an adult. 

"Look, it's a baby in a tree!" Genevieve said, waving another picture in the air. The colours had faded, the whole thing gone red with age.

Violet smiled. "That's your Uncle Sherlock. I think he's nearly two in that one. I never thought I'd have to call the au pair agency and ask for someone who could climb trees. His first twisted her ankle trying to keep up with him. Once he started walking, there was no holding him back."

"That one next to you, Gemma, on the left there?" Pip said. "Hold it up." 

Gemma did so. Pip squinted. "Violet, is that Evie?" 

Violet looked. Oh, yes, that was Evie, all right. The whole Evie business still chafed Violet, even after all these years. But she didn't suppose Mycroft would have told Pip what happened.

"Evie?" Mary said as if she recognized the name. "Who's Evie?" 

"Tree climber and professional Sherlock wrangler." Pip laughed. 

"The only au pair the agency could find who was willing to chase my son into every grotto, tree, and abandoned tunnel on the estate," Violet said. She noted how Mary scrutinized the picture of little Sherlock swinging from the girl's arms "She was a lovely girl, no pretensions, no airs. A bit rough around the edges, I suppose, but she was good with him, and he was so good with her. She was with us nearly six years, almost right up to the time Sherlock left for school."

"Eddie certainly does favor him," Mary said, staring intently at the photo. "He doesn't look like anyone on my side, not even a little."

"I should like to meet your family, sometime," Violet said. She was fairly convinced the girl's mother was dead, but she would like to meet a man who could bring up a daughter like Mary on his own. None of them had attended the christening, but families could be odd about such things. And there was more than a little chance they did not approve of Mary's relationship with Sherlock.

"No family left to meet, I'm afraid," Mary replied, sounding apologetic. "I lost my mother when I was little, and my Dad died from pancreatic cancer almost two years ago, now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear." Violet felt awful. "You've no one? Not even an uncle or aunt?" 

Mary shook her head. "My mother was an only child, and her parents were older when she was born, and both passed away before I came along. My father's father, he was killed right at the end of the war, before he could marry his mum, and she gave him up for adoption. He was raised in foster homes after that, so no, I, ah, we don't really have any other family." Mary stuttered looking embarrassed. "Eddie and I are it - all the Hoopers that are left." 

"Oh, Aunt Mary, that's so sad," Gemma said with an exaggerated frown, though Violet could tell the girl was sincere. Gemma looped her arm around her aunt's shoulder.

Genevieve reached over and put her hand on Mary's arm. "You've us, now. We're your family. "

"And you have Uncle Sherlock," Gemma said.

"Lucky her," Pip said dryly. 

"Thanks, but it's fine, I'm fine, really," Mary said. "Really,"

"Let your Aunt Mary breathe, girls. Oh, look here," Violet said, hoping to distract both Mary and the twins. "Sherlock with Honoria."

Violet passed her the picture. It had been taken when Sherlock was out hunting with Tarquin's mother, the one place Violet's mother-in-law had been anything other than stiff and exacting. He was just a boy, nine or ten, perhaps, making his 'fierce' face, holding a dead grouse by the feet with one hand and rifle in the other, and Honoria had her hand on his shoulder. As formal as Honoria was, it was practically effusive on her part. Both the rifle and the old jacket he wore dwarfed little Sherlock.

"Is that a real gun?" Mary asked, looking and sounding horrified. It hadn't even occurred to Violet that Mary might not approve of hunting. She'd clearly been among Holmeses too long.

"Just a hunting rifle," Pip said.

"I don't believe he's hunted since Honoria died when he was a teenager," Violet said.

"He's so, so young, so little," Mary said.

Violet couldn't quite remember when he'd first started hunting with Honoria, but she knew it was years before the picture was taken. She certainly wasn't going to tell Mary that. 

"They adored each other, Sherlock and his grandmother," Violet said.

"Peas in a pod, those two," Pip said with a smirk. "A strange pod, mind you. My Great Aunt Honoria, Sherlock's gran, was an odd bird."

"It's kind of sweet," Mary said, holding the picture in both hands and studying the image.

"I can have a copy made for you, if you like," Violet said.

"Could you, please? That would be nice to have," Mary said, then quickly added, "for Eddie, I mean." 

"And you'll have to let me have a picture made of your family, Mary," Violet said.

Mary opened her mouth, looking as if she was about to object. 

"The three of you, I mean," Violet said. "You and Sherlock and Edmund."

"Oh. Um, if - if it's okay with Sherlock," Mary said, her eyes wide, "um, sure." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

By the time Mycroft arrived at the restaurant and they were ready to order, John was as hungry as he'd ever been. And Sherlock, for reasons John couldn't quite understand, was as twitchy as John had ever seen him.

"Father's busy," Mycroft said by way of greeting. "He'll be late." 

"Oh, what a shame," Sherlock said, his words as dry as dust. 

Mycroft ignored his brother. "John, I recommend the Seafood Kettle." 

"Oh?" John said. 

"Mussels, fish, scallops, and lobster tails, all in a glorious white wine sauce, with just the perfect amount of garlic," Mycroft explained. "Their chef is famous for it, and deservedly so." He turned his attention to Sherlock. "Now, brother dear, I presume you have some sort of news for me, yes?"

John caught the waiter's eye, feeling a bit desperate. "Seafood Kettle, is it?" 

Mycroft nodded and smiled that unnerving smile of his. "Make that two, please. And for you, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock simply scowled. 

The waiter returned not a full minute later with ice water and a basket of bread, both of which John attacked. Sherlock and Mycroft, in the meantime, engaged in some sort of staring contest that went on until the food arrived. 

It smelled heavenly, and tasted even better. 

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft said, wiping his lips with a napkin, "stop twitching and tell me whatever it is that's on that depraved little mind of yours." 

"It's definitely The Roman," Sherlock said. "Whoever this Roman actually is. Your information is pure dross. Or should I say, the information you've given me is pure dross." 

"Meaning?" Mycroft asked archly. 

"Meaning your people generally turn up better intelligence than this, Mycroft." Sherlock said narrowing his eyes like a pair of coin slots. "Meaning I believe you've mistaken me for an edible form of fungi." 

Mycroft scowled. 

"Mushroom." John swallowed a mouthful of lobster. "Keeping him in the dark and feeding him bullshit, he means." 

Mycroft grimaced. "Lovely image, John, thank you. Why, specifically, do you think that, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock snorted. "Please. No specifics, speculation that is little more than gossip, even Superbus's people do a better job than this, and they're all rubbish." 

"Super bus?" John asked, then shoveled a scallop into his mouth.

"Latin, meaning prideful. Also known as The Old Man," Sherlock answered. 

"Tarquin," Mycroft said.

"Our father," the two said in unison.

"You rang?" Quin said, from the entryway, flashing a brilliant grin and a pair of dimples that looked like they came straight from a Hollywood film. "Tarquin the Proud, at your service, gentlemen."

Mycroft wiped his mouth. "Don't concern yourselves with this matter any longer," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Now that we're certain it's The Roman, I'll put my best people on it." 

"Splendid. Does that mean I can leave this Godforsaken hellhole now?" Sherlock asked.

"Not quite yet," Mycroft answered. "Let's see that things go to plan first, shall we?" 

There was a plan? That was news to John, of course. But from the look on his face, it was news to Sherlock, too.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Heaven - I'm in heaven," Phillipa sang, stretched out on one of the two leather sofas in Violet's media room. "I love this film, Violet. Good choice." 

Molly didn't know quite how it had happened, but she wound up on the floor at the foot of one of the sofas, the way Sherlock often did when they were watching films at home. Only, in this case, instead of a brooding detective in a dressing gown at her feet, she had a pyjama-clad twin on either side of her, and Eddie lying with his head in the crook of her arm, chewing on his teether and trying with all his might to keep his eyes open.

Violet laughed from her own sofa. "Yes, it's very romantic."

Romantic? Molly wasn't so sure about that. When it came to musicals, she always had a hard time suspending her disbelief. Every time she got interested in the plot, someone started singing and dancing and that threw her out of the story completely. Molly hadn't really thought about it until they were more than half-way through Fred and Ginger singing and dancing and wise-cracking but, like her father, Molly really did prefer Clint Eastwood. Sherlock did, as well, given the film choices he made, even though he preferred to call it 'research.' 

"Oh Mummy, tell it, tell it!" Gemma said. 

"Aunt Mary hasn't heard it," Genevieve said. "It's very romantic." 

Pip took another sip of her wine. "Well, when I was nineteen, and Mycroft would have been twenty-four, twenty-five, he was invited, which is to say, ordered to attend, some event at the American Embassy. He had a girlfriend at the time, some over-privileged snooty thing who was lovely to his face, but nasty as she could be behind his back." 

"Oh God, her. That girl was awful, Mary." Violet smirked, and took a sip of her own wine. "I mean, she was absolutely horrid, and how Mycroft missed that fact, I still don't know. But I didn't want him getting any ridiculous ideas, so I suggested he take Phillipa, instead. No harm in that, surely, taking his cousin, instead." 

"The catch was there was to be dancing. Formal ballroom dancing," Phillipa said pulling a face. 

"So he signed the two of them up for lessons." Violet barely got the words out before she and Phillipa dissolved into giggles again.

"Which is funny, why?" Molly asked.

"Mummy and Daddy have two left feet, both of them," Gemma said, rolling onto her back.

"Four altogether," Genevieve said.

"I'd had them tutored as boys, but Mycroft was stubborn," Violet said. "Well, I'd assumed he was being stubborn. Turns out he was actually just hopelessly bad at it." 

"Can Sherlock dance?" Molly asked.

Phillipa blinked at her in that way she had that made Molly feel like she had suddenly started speaking in tongues or something. 

"Yes," Violet said. "Quite well." 

"So," Phillipa continued, "in the course of the lessons, things, well, changed between us, until, during the final class before the ball, we sort of, well, we got distracted and crashed rather spectacularly into another couple." 

"And then Daddy proposed," Gemma said.

"No, not exactly." Phillipa said.

"But Daddy says -" Genevieve said. 

"I know what your father says, but he exaggerates," Phillipa said. "So, Cheek to Cheek was playing on a scratchy old record player and we crashed into Mr. and Mrs. Forsythe-Brooks. All four of us came tumbling down, and as we were untangling ourselves, I looked at Mycroft and I said 'yes.'" 

"And Daddy said -" Gemma prompted, putting her chin in her palm.

Genevieve sat up excitedly.

"He was still sprawled on the floor, mind you," Phillipa said, a twinkle in her eye.

"He said 'Rather presumptuous, don't you think?'" Genevieve supplied in an eerie imitation of Mycroft.

"And Mummy said, 'Not in the slightest,'" Gemma said.

"Well, I knew the question and I knew my answer. What was the point in faffing about?" Phillipa asked. "So I said, 'Sometime in the next six months you are going to ask, Mycroft Holmes, and now you have my answer." 

"Goodness," Molly said. "What did he say?"

Phillipa chuckled. "He said 'You're quite wrong. It would have been three months, four at most. How does June suit?' and I said, "June suits me fine, but why June?" 

"And Daddy said, "I believe Mrs. Forsythe-Brooks has broken my foot, but it should be healed by then,'" Genevieve said. 

"So he managed to get out of having to dance, after all," Pip concluded. 

"See? Very romantic," Gemma said. 

Molly thought the whole thing sounded like something out of a soupy rom-com film, actually, but she wasn't about to say that. And it was hard for her to imagine Mycroft Holmes getting swept up in anything even vaguely resembling a romantic haze. Perhaps he'd been different when he was young, but she somehow doubted it. 

"Bear in mind, girls, your Mummy and Daddy had known each other all their lives," Violet said, seriously.

"Like you and grandfather?" Gemma asked.

Violet shook her head vigorously. "I knew Quin only by reputation."

Eddie had finally lost his battle with sleep, and Molly moved him from one arm to the other. "Is Sherlock's father a musician as well?" 

Violet nearly choked on her wine. "Hardly. No, no, no, dear. You know how Sherlock likes to play detective, always running off on cases?"

Play? Molly didn't even know how to respond to that. She didn’t want to contradict Violet, but she sounded so dismissive of the work Sherlock did, the really brilliant work. She couldn’t imagine why his own mother wasn’t aware of his vocation. But, "Umm," was all she could manage.

"He comes from a long line of dedicated hobbyists," Violet said, with a wave of her hand. "Sherlock's happens to be detection and what not." 

"I wouldn't call it a hobby, exactly," Molly said. 

"Well, he bothers the police with his theories about this crime or that, doesn’t he?" Phillipa asked. 

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, wait." Molly was getting flustered and took a second to compose her thoughts. "It's not a hobby. Some of his work is for, well, private citizens, people who come to him with cases. And he doesn't bother the police. The police come to him. He's a consulting detective. When the police have a complicated case, and they aren't getting anywhere, they consult Sherlock. And John. That's the work they do." 

"I thought John was a doctor." Phillipa sounded suspicious. 

Molly nodded. "Well, yes, mostly, he is. But he works with Sherlock, too. It's a real job." 

"Well, good for Sherlock," Phillipa said. 

Violet let out a deep sigh. "God, yes."

Molly wasn't sure what had just happened. Both Violet and Phillipa seemed so relieved. It was all so odd. "You were saying how you met Sherlock's father?" she said, eager to turn the conversation.

"Right, yes. Well, Quin's father, Augustus, was a banker, and an enormously successful one. But his passion, his love, was archeology. He subscribed to all the professional journals, collected artefacts, spent all his spare time keeping up with the latest finds. And he wrote the most obsessive, pedantic letters to working archeologists, attempting to be taken seriously. My father, Anatole, for one." Violet sounded fond, but also exasperated. "At first, like most of the other professors, he assumed Augustus Holmes was a crackpot, you know? Augustus was a dear, dear man, but tenacious when it came to his theories. Over time, though, my father came to see that Augustus had some very keen insights for an amateur. He and my father grew quite close. He privately funded more than one expedition."

Interesting story, Molly thought, though she wondered, just a bit, if Violet's father would have had time for Augustus if he hadn't had the money to fund archeological projects. "Were any of his theories right?" Molly asked.

"More than a few," Violet said. 

"Most," Phillipa agreed. 

"Is that how you met Sherlock's father?" Molly asked. "Through his father?" 

Violet nodded. "I was just out of the conservatory. I had had a very sheltered upbringing. It was 1965." She looked pointedly at one twin, then the other. "Perhaps if we'd met a few years later, if I had been more worldly, things would not have gone the way they did. But, well, you've met him, Mary, you've seen what he's like. He was so handsome, so charming, and I was such a fool. I was as good as dead the minute I clapped eyes on him." Violet shivered at the memory.

"And what about you, Mary?" Phillipa said. "It's your turn." 

"Me?" she asked.

"You and Sherlock?" Violet sounded as though she was working hard to sound casual. "You're neighbours, yes? Is that how you met?"

Molly blinked. "Um, no. We met in the mortuary at Barts, where I work."

"What was Sherlock doing there?" Violet asked, clearly confused. 

"It was my first day on the job, and all day I'd been taken for everything from a file clerk to a lab tech to a nurse-in-training. Everything but a doctor. Sherlock was there with Greg - D.I. Lestrade, from the Met, he was at the christening - well, Sherlock and Greg were there on a case. Sherlock walked in, took one quick look at me, and said, 'You must be Dr. Hooper. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I need to look at a body, now.'" 

Molly sighed. It sounded like nothing when she told it, but it had been so monumental at the time, to finally be treated like a professional on her first day at her first real job as a doctor. For someone to recognize immediately that she'd spent a decade in training and was not there to wash the emesis bowls or file a stack of forms. Her crush had probably started right there and then. 

"And then?" Phillipa asked.

"Well, not much happened, really. He used to eat with me in the canteen when he was at Barts during my shift, but I think, or I thought, it was so people wouldn't see him sitting alone and think they could talk to him." Molly felt a bit foolish to recall those love-sick days. "He'd come by the morgue and be, well, you know how he can be, whenever he needed something," 

"All hail Sherlock Holmes," Phillipa said, raising her wine glass in the air, "the king of cupboard love!" 

Violet scowled, but it was clearly for show. "And then?"

"Well, mostly, he was horrid, honestly. He'd turn on the charm to get what he wanted, then turn it off the minute he had it. I fell for it every time." Molly sighed. "He didn't want to go out with me himself, of course, he made that quite clear, but, if I went out with someone else, he felt compelled to perform some sort of character assassination." 

"So what happened?" Phillipa asked, wide-eyed.

How to explain it all? The Jim Business and John's wedding and her realization that it was time to get on with her life. "Um, I guess the thing that really did it was, well, I told him I was over him and that he should bugger off." 

"Thus sealing your fate!" Phillipa giggled so hard she covered her mouth with her hand. Molly didn't think it was quite that funny. 

Violet wasn't making any noise, but she was shaking, silently, with her lips pursed. "What did he do then?" 

Molly didn't know how to answer that, especially not with two young girls in the room. She looked down at Eddie and then back at Violet, back at Eddie again, and up at Phillipa. "Well, he didn't like that, as you've probably guessed." She felt herself blush. "He sort of, well, he made a bit of a pest of himself. He was, um, persistent. Yes, very logical and very persistent." 

"Seems logic and persistence paid off," Violet said, glancing at Eddie. 

Molly forced herself to smile, despite feeling incredibly uncomfortable. "Yes."

Phillipa actually raised her eyebrow at her before snorting with laughter again. "Well, good for him," she said. 

"Oh yes, good for Sherlock," Violet agreed. "That's easily the smartest thing he's ever done." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:  
End 7/14


	8. Chapter Eight

Sustain III: Obbligato 8/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Amazing," John Watson said, scanning the club.

"Agreed," Sherlock said. "How the dj can play the same three chords all evening without provoking an assassination attempt escapes me. Perhaps the crowd is simply too intoxicated to mount an organized attack. Although some of the dancing does seem vaguely menacing in nature. Spastic, but menacing. "

Quin rolled his eyes and took a sip of his tonic water. "Pearls before swine, John," he muttered just loudly enough to be heard. "Pearls before swine." 

John had never met anyone like 'call-me-Quin-all-my-friends-do' Holmes, not least of all because he was a Lord-Something into the deal. He was like something out of a 60's spy film, and when he walked into a room, he was automatically 'in charge' in a way that made Mycroft look like he was trying too hard, and left John fighting the urge to salute. 

The four of them sat at what was clearly 'Quin's Table' in a back alcove of the trendy - and John meant really trendy - club, surrounded by a throng of girls, each lovelier than the next. There were so many girls dying to get at him that Quin didn't just need a wing-man, he needed an entire squadron to fend them off. 

John loved Sarah and knew he was lucky to have her and could only work hard at trying to deserve her, but some small part of him sighed at the missed opportunity. He wasn't so bad himself, or hadn't been, in his misspent pre-post-Sherlock days. He could have cut a wide path through Quin Holmes's sloppy seconds, given enough youthful stamina. But he'd never seen anyone pull like Sherlock's father. And was it even pulling if the bloke in question wasn't making an effort? Still, Quin practically had to scrape the girls off his windscreen.

Sherlock, for his part, looked a bit on the green side, but that could have been the lighting. Mycroft looked as if he'd eaten something a week or three past its sell-by date. 

Quin smiled. "Britney-with-an-E, Brittany-with-an-A, Madison, Alyssa, this is John, Mycroft, and Sherlock, my associates."

"Mycroft and I are, in fact, his sons," Sherlock said, smiling his best fake smile. "Yes, ladies, he really is that old." 

Brittany-with-an-A, either not getting the message, or not caring, tried to seat herself on Quin's lap, but was waved off.

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably, his look of disgust deepening. "And, sadly, John, my father, and I all happen to be under contractual obligation," he said.

The four girls looked identically confused.

Mycroft raised his left hand, wiggling his fingers to display his wedding band. "John?" 

"Um, what? Oh." John raised his own left hand. "Yes. Contractual obligation. Right." 

"Quin's divorced," the blondest of the women said. 

"Quin is, in fact, legally separated," Sherlock said, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

"I was cast aside in 1984," Quin said with sudden gravity, an expression of hurt now firmly in place. 

John looked at the girls again. He doubted any of them had been born by 1984. 

"And you still haven't signed the divorce paperwork," Sherlock said.

"Can you blame me? I have attempted to reconcile with your mother on countless occasions over the years, time and time again. But please, take her side." Quin took a sip of his drink. "The fact remains; I am a geographical bachelor."

"How exactly does that work, Father?" Sherlock sneered. "Is the marriage contract suspended once you're more than 8 centimeters away from your wife?" 

Quin grinned. "Give me some credit, Son. It's a good deal longer than that, isn't it ladies? 

The girls all giggled.

One of the brunettes had planted her hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft very firmly removed it. "And while you are all most aesthetically appealing," he said, "there is not a woman in this world enticing enough to even tempt me to put aside my feelings for my wife." 

"Or your fear of her solicitors," Sherlock said. 

"Quite so." Mycroft smiled tightly. "Is it possible to get a cup of tea in this den of iniquity?"

Sherlock, meanwhile, froze like a frightened gazelle as the loveliest, most exquisite, drop-dead sexiest of the four women laid her hand on the back of his neck. "But you're not married, right?" she said in a very, very American accent. 

"Worse than being married, young lady," Mycroft said. "My brother is hopelessly in love."

John choked on his Red Bull.

Sherlock raised his chin, shot his brother a look John couldn’t quite interpret - he either wanted to thank Mycroft or punch him. Knowing Sherlock, it was both. 

With a sigh, Quin waved the women away. "We have to talk business, ladies. Do run along." When they were gone, he turned to back to his sons. "I know for a fact it is entirely possible to be in love with one woman while enjoying the company of others. Violet Vernet has been and ever shall be -"

"'The love of my life,'" Sherlock and Mycroft finished in monotone unison. 

"Mock my grief," Quin said. 

"I believe we already are," Sherlock said. "John is approximately 40 minutes from dropping from exhaustion. Can we please get on with whatever business necessitated our coming to this cesspit now?"

"It's The Roman we're looking for, that's clear now." Quin took another drink. "But my dear, dear enemy is a morning person. He keeps himself locked up tight as a drum in his compound come sundown." 

Mycroft nodded. "Unfortunately, I must corroborate that less than helpful bit of information. Attempts to get at him have been made. All failed."

"Attempts by whom?" Sherlock asked.

Quin looked conspicuously away. "We are assembling a team to breach his defenses."

"I am assembling a team, you mean," Mycroft said.

"Your PA is assembling a team, you mean," Sherlock put in.

John couldn't help himself. "Seriously? We know who it is, we know where he is, and there's no way we can get to him?"

"There's always a way," Mycroft said. "We merely have to find it."

"Well, this has been both pointless and stupid, so congratulations on an unbroken record, Old Man," Sherlock said, rising. "We'll be heading to the hotel -" 

"Yes, run along," Quin said. "I'm sure you want to get Dr. Watson into bed as soon as possible. Your girl from the chippy is more tolerant than I imagined. So it's true, then; education does indeed broaden the horizons of the working classes."

Sherlock went very still. He blinked at his father once, twice, and suddenly the air felt very thick. Then Sherlock's lip curled. "Really? Twenty years and you haven't managed to come up with any new insults?"

Quin shrugged. "I try to stick with the truth. Has more bite."

"Is this really necessary?" Mycroft asked.

John frowned. Sherlock was right; injections of caffeine aside, his alertness was starting to slip away. "Um, sorry, what?" 

"Oh, nothing," Sherlock said. "Or nothing new, anyway. We've reached the part of the evening where he makes veiled and not-so-veiled references to me and homosexuality, and then calls Mycroft 'Fatty.' Traditions are so important to any family reunion, aren't they?" 

It was John's turn to blink. "What?" 

Suddenly, Quin tossed a small glass phial toward Sherlock. "Recognize that?" 

Sherlock, being Sherlock, caught it easily. He gave it a quick glance before tossing it to Mycroft, who let it roll to a stop in front of his cup before deigning to pick it up. "Yes. And?" 

"And," Quin said, "that explains why I haven't been making any headway against The Roman." 

Sherlock scoffed. "So? Mycroft's been bugging you. Mycroft bugs everyone. This is no way makes you special." 

John turned to Mycroft, sitting on his left. "You bug your own father?" 

"Of course not," Mycroft said as if it was a ridiculous idea. "I do, however, bug my operatives. But this - " he rattled the phial "- is not mine." 

"Obviously," Quin said. "But it wasn't caught by any of Mycroft's people either, which means there's someone on the inside, someone who's picking up a bit of extra cash with The Roman on the side." 

"Or you are grossly incompetent," Sherlock suggested. 

"My only incompetent acts are sitting at this table, doing their best impression of ingratitude." 

"Yes, moving on," Mycroft said, wearily, "we need to find the traitor." 

"And go after The Roman," Sherlock added.

"Problem solved." Quin grinned. "Since my digs have been compromised, I suggest we enjoy ourselves until The Roman takes his morning constitutional around dawn. There are six passable clubs in the capital; if we time it correctly, we should be able to hit them all."

Mycroft toyed with his cup. "I can see you've been shaken to the core by your loss of Tiffany, was it?" 

Then something incredible happened. The cool, witty guy dropped away for a moment and Quin Holmes looked like nothing but a sad, weary old man. "Believe what you like, Mycroft, but I'm not a young man anymore and I've my share of disappointments. I was looking forward to spending the years I have remaining with a beautiful young woman of a rather more forgiving nature than your mother." 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

"Bravo, bravo," Sherlock said dryly. "Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on an outstanding performance."

The corner of Quin's mouth twisted into a grin, but there was little humour there. "The Roman has been on this island for five years. He doesn't make a move without my knowledge, and yet somehow, he was able to get my Nikki." 

"Your Nikki?" Sherlock asked. "Who or what is your Nikki?"

"She is the balm for my golden years," Quin answered. "And she's gone." 

"You've brought me here to help you discover where you've misplaced a girlfriend?" Sherlock asked, putting his hand over his face. "Have you considered the distinct possibility that he simply offered her a bigger sweet than the one you had available?" 

"Not possible," Quin said, toothy grin on display.

"What do you propose we do, Father?" Mycroft asked, wincing. It was probably the music.

"Mingle." Quin said. "The Roman prefers blondes, and he prefers them young. For Christ's sake, could you lot try to look as though you're enjoying yourselves? We've another hour and ten minutes here and then we're off. We'll never make all six tonight otherwise."

Sherlock shook his head. "You've no intelligence, nothing to go on, and you want us to spend all night looking for a needle in a string of noisy, silicone-filled haystacks? This is nothing but a flimsy excuse for you to go clubbing until dawn."

"Oh please," Quin scoffed. "You can't take a spin across the dance floor with one of these girls and make a deduction or two based on her shoes, shade of lipstick, condom preference, and the tattoo at the small of her back? That's beyond your vast intellect?" 

The way Quin said vast intellect made it sound more like genital warts, John thought. 

Sherlock gave Quin a hard stare. "Hardly. You're trying to impress us with your ability to garner the attention and sexual favour of any, no wait, make that every female you set your sights on. Believe me, Old Man, when I assure you I could not, under any circumstances, be made to care less." 

Quin's eyes cut to John, then back to Sherlock. "You haven't changed a bit since you were fourteen. You're still afraid of women. Aside from your little piece from the chippy, mind, and she'll be on to you and on her way before you know it."

Sherlock was silent a moment. His jaw jumped as he ground his teeth. John knew that look. Sherlock was furious. 

"Have I bruised your delicate feelings?" Quin sneered. "Do you need Evie to stroke your curly little head and make it all better?" 

"Oh, and did Evie make it all better for you, as well, Father? Some sad story about how your wife didn't understand you, when the truth was, your wife understood you all too well? That is a specialty of yours, isn't? Sticking your finger in other people's pudding. She must have been 20 years younger than you - hardly young enough, given your predilections." 

"Are you serious? Me? Evie? Don't lay that on my doorstep, my boy," Quin said. "That was your brother's work, not mine."

Sherlock's turned to Mycroft. "You?" 

Mycroft didn't respond. 

"You were the reason she was let go?" Sherlock asked. "The reason she was sent back to France?"

Mycroft clutched tiredly at his own forehead. "Sherlock, it was thirty years ago."

"Twenty-eight," Sherlock bit out. "You were fourteen years old, Mycroft!"

"Your point?" Mycroft asked. "She was just one in a very long string, Sherlock. You were going to leave for school in a few months, anyway." 

Sherlock rose. Nodding to first his brother then his father, he said, "My thanks to the two of you for clearing up that misunderstanding. I'm going to the motel room I reserved but have yet to set foot in since landing in this tourist trap. I believe my part in your little farrago is complete. Feel free to carry on without me."

Sherlock had turned his back and taken two steps when Quin raised his voice a level. "There's a chip shop two streets over. If you're looking for company, it's still open." 

Sherlock didn't even slow down. 

As precedent dictated, John raced after him.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~::~:~:~:~:~:~:

Mycroft had booked them into a suite at a five star hotel. Upon finding out, Sherlock had cancelled the reservation and booked them into - this. It wasn't bad, all things considered. The sheets on his twin bed looked, if not clean, at least as if they'd been laundered in the last decade. There was hot and cold water, though it was more trickling than running. True, the whole room smelled of sweat and stale cigarette smoke and there was a huge chip out of the bureau mirror, but John had definitely slept in rougher spots. 

The buzz from the caffeine drinks and adrenaline was wearing off, leaving John feeling rubber-limbed and dazed. All he wanted at the moment was sleep, and a great deal of it. Which in no way explained why, sprawled on his too-soft mattress, he felt the need to kick the stroppy hornets' nest. 

"What was all that about?" he asked, shucking off one shoe and then the other, and letting them thunk to the floor. 

"What was all what about?" Sherlock asked. He was doing his 'I have no idea what you're talking about' routine, which he still, for reasons John could not fathom, thought John couldn't see through. 

"At the club," John said. "Your father and Mycroft and who the hell is Evie?" 

Sherlock hung his jacket in the open cupboard. "You've never seen a dysfunctional family in action before?" 

"Not one where everyone was licensed to kill, no." 

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a wry grin. "Trust me, it's not important." 

John took a deep breath and screwed up his courage. "If there is even an outside chance there was anything to that business of some girl from a chippy, it is my duty, as your friend, to tell you that you are being an idiot." 

Sherlock squinted at him. "What?" 

"She isn't your girlfriend, yeah, I know, but Molly deserves better than that." 

Sherlock shook his head like a wet dog. "Forgive me, John. I sometimes forget how spectacularly stupid you are," he said. "Molly IS the girl from over the chippy, you cretin."

John frowned. "Molly's a forensic pathologist." 

"Is she, really?" Sherlock replied. "I'd no idea, none at all." 

"And - her family owned a chippy, didn’t they?" John said, the light finally dawning. 

"Her father did, yes. Hence my father's delightful commentary." Sherlock said. "My father is a snob. A boor, an idiot, an arse, and a snob." 

"Why does he think she's going to run out on you?" 

"My multiple personal failings, I should think." Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, began removing his shoes and socks. "He must believe her to have a modicum of good sense." 

"Sherlock -" 

"I'd rather not talk about this, now, or ever."

"No," John said. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Molly thinks the sun shines out of your arse, you great git. I've no idea why. Aside from the enormous brain, fair-to-middling looks, and poncey wardrobe, you have nothing going for you, but I hear some girls go for that kind of thing," John said. "She adores you." 

"Piss off," Sherlock said, turning his back fully to John. 

"It's not a bloody crime to love the mother of your child, you know," John said. "If the two of you are just friends and your brother's got it wrong, that's fine too." 

"Which part of 'piss off' did you not understand?" 

John was silent a moment. "I'm not in love with Sarah." 

Sherlock had been unbuttoning his shirt, but paused. "Of course you are," he said. John could hear the sneer in his voice.

"Nope," John said. "I'd take a bullet for her. I know she's far better than I've any right to ask. I'd quit mucking about with you, permanently, in a heartbeat if she asked me to, and God knows she'd be within her rights." 

Sherlock snorted, turned to look at John. "And that's you, not in love, is it?" 

"No," John said. "Don't get me wrong, I love her. I adore her. But it's not that blind, headlong rush into madness you feel when you're a kid. The war might've shocked that right out of me, or maybe it was just waking up one day and realizing I was on the downward slope toward forty without the faintest notion where my twenties and thirties had buggered off to. Whatever did it, I suddenly realized that I wanted someone to build a life with, build a home and a family with, and Sarah wants those things, too." 

"What a lovely and touching story," Sherlock said. "And now that you've told me, please feel free to, what was it again? Oh yes. Piss off." 

"So if Molly isn't your girlfriend, that means she's free to date, right?" 

Sherlock bristled, though his voice remained steady. "You're married, and Sarah is not that open-minded." 

"Bill Redmond's single, though," John said. "I hear he fancies her, a bit." 

After a few moments, Sherlock said, "If I wanted to be annoyed, I'd have stayed with Mycroft and my father."

"So that's a 'no,' then," John said. "You should tell her. We can't all just deduce things, you know, and sometimes we need to be told. With words. She's the best thing that's ever likely to happen to you. You really should tell her."

"How do you know," Sherlock asked carefully, "that I haven't?" 

John's snorted. "We've met, yeah?" 

"Right." Sherlock stood. "I've no idea why stripping naked emotionally is judged to be less distasteful than stripping naked physically, but I'm doing neither for your edification, and unless you want to follow me into the shower, I've had all the coerced intimacy I can stomach for one day." 

"I -" 

"Piss. Off." 

With that, Sherlock picked up his violin case and stepped into the bathroom, slamming the door firmly shut. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Eddie woke up when he usually did, which meant Molly woke up two minutes later, but still entirely too early for her liking. He was in good mood, laughing and smiling at her over the edge of his travel cot, but she felt as if she could very happily sleep for perhaps another week or two. Most of the staff were off enjoying their own holidays, so she could have taken Eddie somewhere else in the house to feed him without fear of embarrassment on anyone's part, but it was easier, and so much cozier, to bring him into bed and nurse him there, so she did. Even so, she was disappointed at how wobbly her stomach still felt when she picked him up.

The two of them were dozing off again when her phone rang. She had to run across the room, wet breast exposed, to get it, upsetting her already troubled stomach in the process. And while His Majesty didn't quite cry, he expressed his displeasure, just the same. 

"Is Edmund awake?" Sherlock asked by way of greeting. 

Her chest went cold. "What's wrong?" 

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock said, sounding very defensive. "I merely asked if Edmund is awake." 

"You never call if you can text," she said, "and half the time, you don't bother to text, either. And you sound - agitated." 

Sherlock said nothing for the span of perhaps twenty seconds. "Are you and Edmund alone?" he asked. 

Heart still hammering, Molly nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her. "Yes. We're in a - a really nice blue bedroom on the third floor, with a view of the gardens. Eddie's in the middle of breakfast. Is the case solved? Is that why you're calling?"

"No. I - no." Sherlock sighed, a sound that spoke of nothing but frustration. "Would you put your phone on speaker, please?" 

Molly frowned. Why did he want her to do that? "Are you sure -" 

"Molly, please." 

Not one please, but two. She had the distinct feeling that, if he were there, his head would be in her lap and they'd be 'researching' a Steve McQueen film. "All right." She tried to sound cheerful and unconcerned, while she felt neither. "Hang on a tick." She set the mobile on the nightstand beside the bed, then settled them back against the headboard. "Okay. Done." 

There was a moment of quiet rustling, and then, all at once, a note sounded from the speaker. And then another, and another, like pieces of bright silver being pulled and twisted in the sun. The music swelled out slowly from the tinny mobile phone speaker, but it was amazing, all the same. She'd heard this piece before, years ago, she thought, perhaps at church. It seemed an odd choice, but it was beautiful, so beautiful. It sounded like longing, like desire, like being filled with love yet knowing she would never, ever get her fill. 

Eddie forgot his breakfast at the sound of the first note, and turned his head first one way, then another, looking for Sherlock. When there was no Sherlock to be seen, he turned back to Molly, but didn't latch on. Instead, Eddie seemed to be listening. 

He knew. He knew that was his daddy playing for them.

"That was lovely," she said when the music ended. "Thank you." There was no sound from the other end, and Molly felt something in her chest tighten. "Are you sure you're -?"

Before she could finish asking, there was a soft knock at the door. Phillipa stuck her head in. "Morning," she said. "I've brought you some food." 

Molly heard the connection go dead. 

"Was that Sherlock on the phone?" Phillipa asked. She brought in a covered tray, and set it on the bedside table. "He's terrible." Her nose wrinkled. 

"No, he's not." Molly couldn't believe that anyone, even Phillipa, would call that terrible. "He plays beautifully." 

"Not his playing, dear. Never that." Phillipa shook her head. "Sherlock's talented, possibly gifted. What's terrible is having an ability like that and not using it. He could easily have a career in music, a real career, but instead he plays detective." 

Enough, Molly decided, was enough. She understood that Violet worried about Sherlock as it was, and didn't want to add to those worries by explaining how beaten and bruised Sherlock's cases occasionally left him, if she could avoid it. But his sister-in-law constantly demeaned and degraded Sherlock, and she was tired of it. She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I told you, Phillipa, it's not his hobby, and it's not a game. It's his career. The last time Sherlock 'played detective,' he walked through my door with a £250,000 cheque in his pocket." 

Phillipa blinked owlishly at her. "Really? From whom?" 

"Yes, really," Molly said. "From a client. They pay him. They pay him well." 

Phillipa blinked a few more times, clearly considering this information. "And what happened to that money?" 

"It's in my bank account, every penny of it," Molly said. "If - if you must know." 

Phillipa sat on the edge of the bed. She seemed genuinely surprised. And not a little embarrassed. She looked at Eddie, who was watching her intently. She offered him a finger, which he took with a smile and immediately tried to stuff into his mouth. "I've upset you, Mary. I'm sorry. It's just - well, he's always been -" She sighed. "- difficult. It's hard to believe he's changed." 

"Oh, he's still difficult," Molly said, trying to lighten the mood. "He wouldn't be Sherlock otherwise." 

Pillipa's brows rose. "And I suppose you wouldn't want him any other way?" 

Despite her best intentions, Molly felt herself blush. "No," she said, "I really wouldn't." 

Phillipa laughed then, and Molly did, too. It felt like a weight had been shifted.

"Goodness," Phillipa said. "All this nonsense before breakfast. Here, give me Edmund and you can eat this before it goes cold." She swung the tray into position across Molly's lap and took Eddie into her arms. "I thought you should eat some real food. You were eating like a bird while you were seasick. You need to get your strength back so you can deal with this adorable boy!" 

Molly lifted the dome off the tray. It was a lovely breakfast, full English with all the trimmings - poached eggs, toast, sausage, bacon, black pudding, mushrooms, baked beans, half a tomato, a kipper and -

Her stomach heaved. Bile rose, stinging the back of her throat, and she pushed the tray aside as quickly as she could without upsetting it. She shot out of bed, glad to have already handed Eddie to Phillipa, and ran to the attached bathroom, where she vomited up what little was still in her stomach from the day before. 

She had moved on to dry-heaving by the time Phillipa came to the door, Eddie on her hip. They both looked as alarmed as Molly felt. 

"Are you all right?" Phillipa asked when the gagging finally stopped. 

Molly knuckled the tears from her eyes, wiped her streaming nose on the back of her hand. "Fine," she said. 

Phillipa snorted. "Good Lord, Mary, you are not fine," she said. "But you aren't exactly sick, either, are you?" 

Strength completely zapped, Molly sat on the cold marble floor and leaned against the tiled wall. "I thought it was seasickness, or flu, but now I - I don't know," she said, willing her lip not to quiver. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't. There was no reason to cry. 

"Don't cry, dear," Phillipa said. "Is it - are you -?" 

Molly squeezed her eyes tightly closed. "I don't know." 

"But it is a possibility?" 

Molly couldn't look at her. She simply nodded. 

"Well, a quick trip to the chemist and, in two minutes, you can know for sure," Phillipa said. "Or so the adverts say. Easy. Oh, I know, I'll take Edmund down to visit with Violet, shall I, and you can shower and get yourself organized and dressed, and I'll run out to the shops. I'll tell her you need, um, what might you need from the chemists?" 

"Cream," Molly said after a moment's thought. "Cream for cracked nipples."

"Oh, good thinking," Phillipa said. "She's certain not to have any of that about. I'll just change Edmund's nappy and -" Her voice trailed off as she went back to the bedroom. 

Molly took a deep breath, then another. It was shocking, the idea, the very notion, that she might be pregnant. Again. And so soon. And accidentally. And Sherlock -

Oh God. 

Another deep breath. Life was full of surprises, she reminded herself. You just had to get up, put one foot in front of the other, shower, clean your teeth, and deal with what life put in front of you. The rest would sort itself out. It always had before; no reason it shouldn’t this time. 

She stripped off her pyjamas and stepped into the shower. Her stomach was as flat this morning as it had been the day before. Perhaps it was flu. Perhaps she was over-reacting. 

She'd know soon enough. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

End 8/14


	9. Chapter Nine

Sustain III: Obbligato 9/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John woke up, still fully dressed, sunlight streaming through the open door, manky duvet twisted round his feet, when something hit him.

He sat up.

The thing that hit him was actually two things: a shirt and shorts. A uniform in khaki brown.

"I need a look-out," Sherlock said from the doorway. He was already dressed in an identical uniform. John squinted, but he couldn't say it suited Sherlock at all. Something about the cut of the collar made him look like a bit like an ostrich in fancy dress, and the khaki made him look peaky. And no one - no one - with legs as pale as Sherlock's should wear shorts.

"What are we doing?" John stripped off his clothes and pulled on the uniform shirt. The buttons were the wrong way around, for some reason.

"Meeting a delivery van, in ten minutes," Sherlock said.

"Where?" 

"Two streets west of here," Sherlock said. "Do hurry." 

"Why?" John struggled with the shorts. The were too large in the bum and too small in the waist and zipped and buttoned the wrong way, like the shirt. 

"Because we need it." 

"It? Wait, is this a woman's unif -" 

"The van, obviously." Sherlock frowned. "Don't whinge. These were the only uniforms I could get."

"I'd worked that part out, thanks." John lay back on the bed so he could do up the zip. "The question, again," he grunted, "is why."

"So that we might deliver twelve cases of Cotnari wine and assorted liquors to a uniquely well-secured compound at the edge of Hamilton." 

John had known Sherlock long enough not to be surprised. He nodded and pulled on his shoes. 

"You did learn to drive in the army, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, of course," John stood. "The Roman's place, yeah? You don't reckon he knows what you look like? He's bound to be watching." 

"Were he on the island he no doubt would be," Sherlock said. "But he left Bermuda prior to our arrival. Only lackeys remain. Not too difficult to get past."

"But your dad said -" 

"Please don't call him that," Sherlock said sharply.

"Right, fine, Quin and Mycroft both- " 

"Are hiding something from me, from us," Sherlock said. "There's a piece of information my brother wants from The Roman, quite badly, and wishes to keep from me, just as badly. And Tarquin Holmes is not to be trusted under the best of circumstances. Never mind that I've no interest in being used as their sniffer dog."

John nodded. "So why are we here?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said with an edge to his voice. "But let's find out, shall we?"

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Mary?" Phillipa called through the washroom door. She'd been waiting so long she started to suspect Mary had gone to sleep in there. 

"Coming," Mary called finally.

The door unlocked with a snick, and there stood Mary, looking bloody awful. Her eyes and nose were red and her face was a blotchy, tear-streaked mess.

Pip winced. "So that's a 'yes'?" 

Mary closed her eyes and nodded. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

Pip didn't know what to say. "Don't, don't cry," she finally mustered. "I take it you aren't happy with the news?" 

Mary walked past her, sat on the edge of the bed and reached for a tissue. "I'd love" - sob - "another baby," Mary said, and then cried harder. "But I don't know about -" sob "- Sher - Sher - Sher-" 

"Sherlock, yes." Pip sat beside her. "The two of you haven't discussed having more children?" 

Mary laughed a horrid, desperate laugh and shook her head. 

Pip knew it. She hadn't bought the way Sherlock faked playing happy families for a minute, not really, and especially not since she accidentally caught sight of the two of them on the deck the night of the party. Pip knew Sherlock didn't have any self-respect, but poor Mary was smitten and he treated her like a whore. Clichés about leopards and spots and dogs and tricks danced in a merry circle through her head.

"If he doesn't want - this?" Mary sniffled. "We'll have to move house, Eddie and I, we'll have to -" 

"You're worried Sherlock will throw you out in the street because he got you pregnant?" Pip asked in amazement.

"No, no, of course not," Mary said. "He wouldn't. But I couldn't - we couldn't - not with him so close -" 

"Nonsense. He's lucky to have you, Mary. And he knows it. Even if he doesn't let on, he knows it." 

Mary wiped her eyes with her hands and shook her head. "I'm the lucky one. I've no idea what he's getting out of our - our - this."

"Mary," Pip said definitively, "Sherlock is the biggest failure as a human being that I know. I've no idea what you see in him, none whatsoever, but I've a fair idea of what he sees in you."

Mary gave her a skeptical glance. 

"You're pretty," Pip said, because it was true, "you're good at your job, you're surprisingly personable for someone who cuts up dead people for a living, you are a wonderful mother, and unlike most people, you actually like Sherlock."

Mary looked like she didn't quite believe her. "But Sherlock is - is -" 

"Tall, horse-faced, spoilt, nasty, and annoying? All true," Pip said. "But do you know what I noticed while we were away? While he's still tall and horse-faced, he was a great deal less spoilt, nasty, and annoying than usual. That's down to you, isn't it?" 

Mary sniffed and shrugged. "I asked him if he could try to be less, um, abrasive."

"And he did it, Mary. For you. Just because you asked. Do you think you're the only one who's ever asked? You've no idea how phenomenal that is, do you?" 

Mary shrugged once more. The tears started again in earnest. 

"Oh, Mary. Do you know, for a fact, that he is not going to be happy about this?" 

Mary shook her head. "No. I'm probably just borrowing trouble, aren't I?"

"I'm sure he'll do the right thing," Pip said. And she was sure, too, because she would speak to Mycroft about it, and between them, they would see to it Sherlock made good, whether he wanted to or not. He wasn't going to break either Mary or Violet's heart by bollixing this up. 

Mary visibly forced a smile. "I'm sure." 

"Now, get yourself dressed and come downstairs before Violet sends a search party up after us." She rose and crossed to the door. "It will all work out in the end, you'll see."

Mary nodded. "I hope you're right." 

"I am," Pip said. "I guarantee it." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Go round back," the voice from the intercom ordered when gate swung wide.

Sherlock used his practiced bored face to cover the adrenalin that was surging hot and cold through his veins. John looked put out, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure if it was real or not. It didn't matter though, as long as he drove the truck and kept the gun Mycroft had provided handy.

He held his own expression steady, hopping out of the truck and consciously stooping his shoulders as he filed the thug's face for future reference. 

"You're new," a lackey in a Manchester United shirt said. 

Sherlock grunted and nodded. There were three more hanging about the garden, talking amongst themselves. They looked like Rom and sounded like Chavs. 

"Good," said another. "The old one never wanted to get the boxes."

"Or the empties," said Man-U. "It's in the contract, right, you lot are 'sposed to get the boxes and the empties."

Sherlock pushed his shoulders down further, loading the wine and liquor on the handcart. "Nobody said anything to me, mate," he said in a very reasonable approximation of the local accent.

Man-U held the back door open for him. "Don't care if they told ya or not, you got to take 'em, yeah? You'll get the boxes and the empties or we'll be making a call to your boss."

"Cellar's to your right," the other lackey said. "Find it for yourself but don't go no where else. I got a goat on the fire out front."

"Looks like I'm getting the empties up from the cellar, then," Sherlock said. He was sure to speak loudly enough so that John, back in the van, would hear every word through the shirt-button bug. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock stood in the cellar making a quick study of the organization of the racks. The Cotnari went in nearest the door. It was cheap, and someone seemed to consume a good deal of it, based on the number of empties. And at least four empty bottles had been used as Molotov cocktails. He doubted anyone else on the island drank that swill. 

The other bottles went away easily, stored in order of relative merit.

If all went according to plan, Sherlock would be able to plant a few bugs and be in and out before any of The Roman's lackeys were any wiser. If the lot he'd encountered so far were any indication, it shouldn’t be that difficult. 

There were security cameras in the cellar, of course, but it was a simple enough matter to 'accidentally' stack boxes so as to block them. Sherlock then pulled out his own phone, prepared to take photos, only to discover his freshly-charged phone had no signal. 

No, not simply no signal; the signal was actively being blocked. 

Interesting, that. Who blocked microwave signals to a wine cellar? Someone cellaring more than wine, obviously.

He looked around, scrutinizing the walls, the ceiling, the floor- 

There. There was a seam in the floor, one that made no sense as anything other than a secret compartment. 

He knocked along the edge of it, searching for an echo that would indicate a hidden cavity or chamber. 

Instead, someone knocked back. "Help! Help me!" he heard faintly. 

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his Leatherman, began carefully working the blade around the seam, then prised the trap door open. 

He was assailed by the smell of wine, sweat, and urine. "Oh thank God," a woman, presumably the one he had heard, said. "I thought you'd never get -" she squinted at him "- Sherlock?" 

Sherlock had to hide his very genuine surprise. "Have we met?" he asked, pulling her from the hole. She was tall and blonde and had been in that chamber a minimum of four days, a maximum of six - he couldn't tell from smell alone. This - she, whoever she was - was not part of his plan at all, and presented any number of complications. 

"I suppose that depends," she said, blinking rapidly. "Who sent you?" 

It was Sherlock's turn to blink. "Oh," he said, as the puzzle piece snapped into place. "Nikki, I presume?"

"Ah, so Quin, then," she said.

"And if I'd said Mycroft?" 

"Gloria Halter. Lori." She waved a hand unsteadily at him. "Nev' mind." 

"Well, whoever you are, we're in a hurry. There are surveillance cameras - " 

"Don't worry about those cameras," she said. She pointed to the trap door. "That's the access hatch, all the electronics are down there. I disabled them ages ago. The cameras for this area, I put those on a constant loop weeks ago, anyway. If anyone is watching, which, honestly, probably not the case. For an international criminal kingpin, The Roman runs an incredibly shoppy slip." She frowned. "Slippy shop. Sloppy ship."

"Have you, by any chance, been living on wine?" Sherlock asked. 

She nodded. "A little bit. I had two PowerBars, too, but those are gone. There was bottled water, too, but I wanted it to last. My phone battery died on the nineteenth -"

He frowned. "It's the twenty-third." 

"Oh." She looked very despondent, then brightened. "Well, you're here now, aren’t you? I surveilled you, you know." 

"You. Surveilled. Me?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

"Electronically," she said, said rubbing her eyes. "Before Mycroft assigned me to Quin. All I did was look at all the camera footage, nothing pervy. Was it a boy or a girl?" 

Sherlock blinked, but he wasn't surprised, not really. He knew Mycroft kept watch on his doings. Still, it was something else to be confronted by the fact so baldly. His brother assigned someone to go through hours of CCTV footage of him getting in and out of cabs, carrying rubbish out to the bins, God knew what else. Of course, she would have seen Molly coming and going from his flat, watched her belly grow.

"Boy," he said cautiously.

"You didn't name him after Quin, did you?" 

"Not a chance in Hell." 

"Good." She nodded. "Because your father? He's a shit."

"Agreed." Sherlock began scanning the area again. Maybe there was something - 

"It's not down here," she said.

"What's not down here?"

"The ledger of myth and legend." She tried to smooth her hair with her fingers, but it was a lost cause. "There's nothing here but booze. You'd think from the time The Roman spends down here that there's some great secret lurking, but no, all he cares about is his bloody liquor." 

"I see." Sherlock said. He had no idea what ledger she was talking about, but there was not point letting on. 

"That was the mistake I made. I thought 'he spends so much time down here must have something hidden.' But no, nothing but bottle after bottle after bottle. Then I heard a noise and thought I was so clever to slip through the trap door. It wouldn't open from the inside, though. Something was wedged or broken or something, I don't know. I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life as I am to see you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Glad to be of service," he said dryly, and considered her words. Obviously, she believed he'd been sent by Mycroft or Quin, specifically to find her. Which was very far from the truth. But he might be able to use her confusion to his advantage. "He doesn't care about anything but his liquor, you say, but which is his favorite?"

"Scotch. The Macallan 25," she said, and pointed. "Uses gloves to handle it, sets it beside him, sometimes, when he's on his computer. Says it's his good luck charm." 

Sherlock looked. There, on the far wall, in a green and white presentation box, was very normal looking bottle of Macallan. He peered at the box, and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, opened the box and examined the bottle.

Nothing obvious. Nothing but a tiny smear where no smear should have been. At least, at first glance, it looked like a smear. He pulled the magnifier from his pocket.

"Did you find something?" she asked. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. His heart almost stopped beating for a moment. It wasn't a label at all. Someone had used a TexToPix program to make numbers the size of grains of salt disappear into what looked to be the label of a bottle of twenty five year old scotch. The ledger she'd mentioned. A ledger Mycroft would no doubt be very happy to get his annoying, fat fingers on. All the leverage Sherlock would need. Now all he had to do was get the Scotch and the girl out in one piece.

He put another bottle of Macallan that he'd unpacked not a quarter of an hour before in place of the 'lucky charm' bottle and replaced the cover.

"Probably nothing important," he lied. "Let's take it with us anyway, shall we?" 

"How are you going to get me out of here?" she asked. "They probably think I ran off. It'll look suspicious if I just walk out with you." 

"Yes, it will." Sherlock pulled a roll of gaffer tape he'd thought to bring along from his pocket and ripped off a length.

"What're you going to do with that?" she asked. 

"Save your life," Sherlock told her, and put the tape over her mouth.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

It didn't surprise John when Sherlock turned to him as they drove from the compound and said, "Royal Palms, and quickly." It did surprise him when Sherlock wheeled a handcart stacked with boxes up to the Palms' service lift and straight to Mycroft's room, though. It surprised him even more when Sherlock pulled off the top box, which had its bottom flaps open and wedged into the box below it, to reveal a woman bound hand and foot with tape. She smelled a bit like one of Sherlock's informants.

"Look what I found," Sherlock said, by way of greeting. "I've your lost toy, Old Man." He said it loud enough to be heard in the adjoining room as he cut the tape binding Nikki's feet. "And I believe I've found something that will interest you, too," he told Mycroft. 

"Good God, Nikki, darling, were you abducted?" Quin said. He took her by the shoulders, looked her up and down. "That's a relief, darling. I thought you'd left me. I was crushed." He led her to the edge of the bed, and began very carefully pulling the tape from her mouth. 

"Spare us the theatrics," Sherlock said. "She's not really your girlfriend, she's Mycroft's plant, obviously. She thought she might earn herself a promotion by getting her hands on The Roman's much sought-after ledger. Instead, she inadvertently trapped herself in her prey's wine cellar for most of a week."

Quin rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew she was working for your brother, you dolt," he said as he held her close. "That makes my feelings no less genuine." 

The girl blinked, rubbing at the places on her skin where the tape had been. "I want to shower. May I shower?"

"I would consider it a personal favor," Mycroft said, nose wrinkled.

The woman padded out of the room quietly, Quin following close behind.

"I managed to drop a few bugs on my way out," Sherlock said. He tossed John an earpiece. 

"Where did you pick these up?" John asked.

"Kinder Egg," Sherlock said, archly. "There's a desk in there. I need you to write down everything you hear, regardless of how trivial it might seem. It's being recorded, but I don't want to waste time hoping someone in Mycroft's office will notice something important." 

"Can do," John said, relieved at having a task. He pulled the hotel pad out of the desk drawer, sat down, and attempted to tune out the sounds in the rest of the suite.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 9/14


	10. Chapter Ten

Sustain III: Obbligato 10/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock picked up the phone and dialed the concierge. "I need a scanner brought to this room immediately. The highest quality scanner available. If there isn’t one in the hotel, please acquire one as soon a possible."

Mycroft unwrapped another chocolate and popped it in his mouth. It was the third one Sherlock had counted since their arrival. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. 

"I'll need your computer," Sherlock said. 

"Of course," Mycroft said. He pointed to a case by the cupboard. 

Ordinarily, Sherlock would have made some cutting remark. But something was wrong, something beyond paternal disapproval and sibling rivalry and the day-to- day stress a man such as Mycroft encountered while ruling the world, or a large part of it, at any rate. The shower was running, and Sherlock estimated the low murmuring would continue for at least another 20 minutes. He'd sent John into the next room not simply so he'd have solitude in which to work, but to afford his brother and him a modicum of privacy. Perhaps now, without so many eyes on him, Mycroft would be less skittish.

"I have the ledger," he said, "and I've worked out that the key to reading it was on the chip Molly pulled from the girl in the morgue." 

At this, Mycroft's brows rose. 

Sherlock ploughed on. "I also know that your people have managed to decode it, or you never would have brought me here." 

Mycroft looked at his nails. "Give me the ledger and you and John can leave. I'll call the attorney now if you like and cut the purse strings. Mind you don't come begging to me when you've run through it."

Sherlock exhaled, counting the ways in which his brother annoyed him. Worst, by far, was the pretense of generosity. That money already belonged to Sherlock, had been left to him by his Gran. Secondly, he was being purposefully kept in the dark. It rankled fiercely.

"Why do you insist on treating me like a child?" Sherlock asked, perhaps a bit louder than he'd intended. "You're keeping this case from me, the real meat and bone of it -" 

"I treat you like a child because you behave like a child. Apparently, brother dear, not only are you under the impression the sun revolves round the Earth, you also seem to believe my life revolves around you. Perhaps someone needs to explain that Ptolemaic Motion has been debunked." 

"You're protecting someone, or think you are. Who are you protecting?" Sherlock wondered aloud and Mycroft almost looked bemused. 

"That would be telling, wouldn't it?" Mycroft said, narrowing his eyes.

"Phillipa?" Sherlock said, drawing the name out much longer than he'd intended.

Mycroft's expression changed not at all. 

"It is Pip, isn't it? But how?" Sherlock said. "What has she done now?"

"'Now?'" Mycroft's voice took on that hard edge that meant he had reached the bottom of his store of graciousness. "What do you mean, 'now?'" 

"I simply meant -" 

"You haven't said a civil word to my wife in your entire life, do you know that?" Mycroft demanded. "She's done nothing to you -"

"Oh please, Mycroft, the incivility goes both ways and you know it," he said. He'd never understood why Mycroft married Pip. Aside from the money - and there were plenty of women with money - Sherlock couldn't imagine what Mycroft had been thinking. He never swallowed their pretense of marital amity, though he had no evidence to contradict it. It piqued his interest to think he might finally understand what was between his brother and his wife.

Something hard settled over Mycroft's face. "I assure you, in this matter, Phillipa is an innocent victim." He swallowed. "As are my daughters."

"Your daughters?" Suddenly, like a perfectly balanced chemical equation, the components all fell into place. The warehouse in Birmingham. The Roman's ledger. Mycroft being desperate for that ledger, desperate enough to release the one thing he had been holding over Sherlock's head for years. But had his brother's children been born via surrogate? 

"And you intentionally kept me unaware of this?" Sherlock asked angrily. He lowered his voice, not wanting to attract John's attention. "You might have bloody mentioned it. They're my blasted nieces, Mycroft. I even stood up in front of your congregated friends and relations whilst arcane and superstitious rites were performed on them."

"Don't pretend that being the girls' godfather has meant a thing to you. I'm surprised you are even able to recall that it happened, as strung out as you were at the time." Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "Don't insult me by pretending you've taken even a passing interest in my children."

"They're little girls, Mycroft, what sort of interest do you expect me to take? I've never mistreated them, have I?" Sherlock asked, not even trying to hold back his anger. "And I'll remind you, you offered Molly money to abort my son, which, well, yes, if that's your notion of taking an interest -"

"Please," Mycroft said. "As if, at the time, you had any interest in that child beyond his potential utility as a bargaining chip. Access to the morgue, was it? Or had you suddenly, after all those years, decided to give girls another go?" 

"This from the man who married his oh-so-convenient cousin. Oh my God," Sherlock said, realization dawning on him. "You're jealous, aren't you? Molly actually likes me, and you're jealous."

"I would be very careful of the next words out of my mouth if I were you," Mycroft said gently, lightly, purposefully trying to scare him.

"Pip was either unable or unwilling to bear your children," Sherlock went on. "Unwilling, is my guess, but then again, she isn't the direction your tastes, such as they are, generally run, is she? So maybe you were simply unwilling to do the deed. Whereas I was able to get Molly in the club on the first go." 

"No need to regale me with the gory details of how you've violated Dr. Hooper by means of every method listed in the Psychopathia Sexualis; I recall your university days well enough. To be perfectly frank, I was surprised that you could manage it with your little doctor without drugs to mask your terror of personal intimacy," Mycroft said, nostrils flaring. "I know exactly what it's like between the two of you; I've seen the video from the boat." 

"What?" 

"Oh, please, Sherlock, of course you knew I would have the deck under surveillance," Mycroft said, rubbing his face with his hands. "Why else would you have put on that show? It was the nautical equivalent of knickers in a biscuit tin!" 

Sherlock blinked, completely nonplussed. Good God, of course there had been surveillance - what had he been thinking? Well, he hadn't been thinking, had he? Champagne and cognac and Molly -

His stomach churned. The notion that not only Mycroft, but also his minions, had seen Molly naked, vulnerable, his semen on her breasts and belly, was unpleasant at best. That Mycroft had seen him wanting her so desperately - 

He tried to sort it out. Mycroft needed him. Even he admitted as much. He had to think it through. If he didn't sick up first at the thought of Mycroft, used to a steady diet of frigid Pip, drinking in Molly shining in the moonlight - 

No.

No.

No. He had to think.

"Can we, can we please just stop this?" he said. "Can we taunt and hate and pick at each other later when there's nothing much at stake? Because there is something at stake here, isn't there, Mycroft?" 

Mycroft's eyes flicked away from his momentarily.

"I think I've worked this out. Your children - Gemma and Genevieve, yes, I do know their names - they are yours, biologically, yours and Phillipa's - but they were carried by a surrogate?" Sherlock asked. 

"Two surrogates," Mycroft corrected. 

"I see," Sherlock said. He'd assumed they were identical twins. Unobservant of him. "And no one noticed?" 

"Mummy knows, of course," Mycroft said. "Pip and I lived abroad much of that year. When we returned to England, we returned with our children. Not that you'd have noticed, even if you had been in the country." 

Sherlock ignored Mycroft's jab. "Your surrogates' solicitor was the same one you asked me to locate, yes? It's clear now he worked for The Roman. And they call him 'The Roman' because his preferred method of execution is crucifixion, like the guards in that warehouse in Birmingham, and his inexplicable liking for Romanian plonk." 

Mycroft nodded. 

"Your daughters, they came from a farm like that one John and I found, didn't they?"

Mycroft said nothing. 

"And you didn't vet the surrogates within an inch of their lives?"

"Of course I did!" Mycroft snapped. "It appears the Roman placed very convincing decoys among Gareth Miller's clientele."

"Very convincing, indeed," Sherlock agreed. "That's why that girl Molly autopsied had collapsed veins and worn injection sites. That's why her vocal cords had been cut. She wasn't a junky; she was an unwilling breeding bitch. It takes a strong cocktail of chemicals to allow one woman to carry another's child to term."

Mycroft looked ill, but nodded.

"And you didn't think to let me in on the secret until now?" 

"Do you recall where you were fourteen years ago?" Mycroft asked. "When I was waking in the night to find my bed sheets soaked with blood from yet another miscarriage? You were squatting in that ruin outside Palermo, looking to score drugs. We weren't exactly having regular heart to hearts at that point." 

"I've been clean well over five years, truly clean, Mycroft, and nowhere in that time did it occur to you to fill me in on what was going on in my own family?" 

"Of course it did," Mycroft said. "It also occurred to me that you would have no qualms about using the information against Phillipa, cruelly and thoughtlessly."

Sherlock couldn't find a valid argument against what Mycroft had said. He knew he was apt to say anything that occurred to him when he was angry or frustrated. But he wasn't that bad, surely? Was he? 

Perhaps - perhaps he was. 

"Do you really think I've no idea exactly how much I owe you?" Sherlock asked. "Do you really think I would be unable to move past my petty grievances against your wife when it really mattered?"

"Because you've shown yourself so ready to forgive and forget where our father is concerned," Mycroft said.

"If you'd any idea -" Sherlock began, but his brother cut him off.

"If I'd any idea what?" Mycroft bit out. "That our father is callous, self-centered, and a habitual womanizer? That he is the very epitome of mendacity. He is, nonetheless, our father. He does care in his own way."

"Is that what you tell yourself to make your professional dealings with him more palatable? You do recall Gran's funeral? Do you recall afterwards? No, of course you don't, you were called away because someone in Latvia had a head cold if I remember correctly." 

"The Soviet Union was, in fact, disintegrating," Mycroft said. 

"Do you know where he took me? He took me to a brothel," Sherlock said. "And do you know what he said?"

"I believe I said," Quin drawled, leaning against the wall a sarcastic smile dancing on his lips, "'Your gran coddled you, boy, giving in to all your little whims. She never indulged me, and I was better for it. Well, it's time to make a man of you.' Sound about right?"

"Don't you have a Tiffany that needs minding?" Sherlock snarled.

"She's washed all the good bits. Go on, tell your brother how badly I mistreated you. I am very interested to hear this." Quin folded his arms cross his chest. "Fascinated, in fact." 

"I said 'No, thank you, sir,'" Sherlock said.

Quin shook his head. "Not quite, son. You said, 'No, thank you, sir, I'm not interested in girls, sir.' With your pupils dilated and your heart rate up a good twenty percent. You weren't uninterested; you were terrified." 

"'Time to grow up,' you said. 'You and your school friends wank each other off because there are no girls about and it's the done thing, but it's time move on to proper sex now, like a man.'" Sherlock quoted. "And you had them bring out a whore who looked remarkably like Mummy - " 

"She did not! " Quin protested.

"- and when I declined, you suggested we have a go at her together!" 

"I was trying to be encouraging!" Quin shouted. "I told you if she wasn't to your taste you could have whatever you liked. You requested a bloody fourteen year old boy. I was humiliated."

"I was a bloody fourteen year old boy!" Sherlock hissed. 

Quin sneered. "It's always about you, isn't it?" 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his lips parted slightly, as if in indecision. Finally he cleared his throat and spoke. "It took a team of technicians weeks to decode the information on the chip," he said. "Unfortunately, what they decoded was a key for a code, useless without something to unlock. You're certain you've found the ledger?" 

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Beyond a doubt," he said, willing his heart rate to drop. "We just need -" 

There was a knock at the door. 

"That would be the scanner."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John ignored his lurching stomach and concentrated on filling the hotel notepad. Most of what they said was aimless and dull, blokes sitting about being blokes, but John dutifully made notes, just the same. He raised his head from time to time to watch Sherlock bent over the computer, deep in concentration the way only Sherlock Holmes could be. John could fire a gun and he doubted Sherlock would so much as flinch. 

"Got it," Sherlock said at one point. "And, oh my, what have we here?"

"An extensive clientele list, for one thing," Mycroft said. "Coded, obviously." 

After more than an hour, John was still copying down words, barely noticing what he was writing anymore. His mind was elsewhere, listening to Sherlock talking low to Mycroft. 

"Gerald Travers? Jerry and Dale Travers? Why not say Fred and Ginger and be done with it?" 

"Do shut up," Mycroft said.

"Seriously, could you possibly have chosen more obvious pseudonyms?" Sherlock asked. 

"Of all the popular culture references you choose to retain -"

"Pip's idea, I assume. All this, I mean. Women can be very persuasive when their biological imperative kicks in. Very persuasive, and very sentimental."

"Do please spare me your entirely theoretical views on the women." Mycroft sniffed. "It wasn't Phillipa."

"What?" Sherlock sounded baffled. 

"Phillipa wanted to adopt. You do know she runs a charity for children who have lost their parents to major catastrophes, famines, wars, that sort of thing?" 

"Of course I know." 

"Well, she thought we should set an example and adopt, but I thought, given my line of work, it might chafe a bit to adopt the child of some conflict or other I may have had a hand in. And it would have been the end of the Holmes bloodline. So I pushed and I pushed until I had quite pushed her into this."

"I see." 

Quin stuck his head back into the room Mycroft and Sherlock occupied. John couldn't make out all of what he was saying, but he heard 'Nikki', 'bed', 'rough week', and 'one of yours, after all.' John hadn't formed a formal opinion before this, but he was sure now: Quin was a jackass. 

Mycroft and Sherlock returned to working in silence after Quin left again, and John went back to his note-taking. Suddenly, the tone of the conversation he was listening to changed. "I think we've got a problem," he said. 

"What is it?" Sherlock raised his head. 

"'I hate it when the boss is gone, there's nothing to do but eat and wank and watch telly.'" John read out. "And then another one says 'Still it's better than going with him, yeah? When he's with the big boss,' then someone says 'Big Boss, right? That creepy little mick gives me the screaming abdabs' then the first bloke again, 'it's that voice that does it, sounds like a bleedin' girl when he gets wound up, don't he, but he'd do you soon as look at you' then someone else says 'that and the way he's always going on about houses, houses, houses, how he's gonna finish them houses, good and proper,' then someone else 'you fucking thickie, it's not houses, it's homes." 

Sherlock hesitated only a second before he shot up from the computer and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock didn't answer. He was already gone.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

For the last two years, almost everything Sherlock had done had been predicated on one simple fact - James Moriarty was dead. The night of their confrontation at the pool, Mycroft's people had neutralized his snipers, arrested him, and led him to an extremely secure van. The van had, less than a minute later, blown sky-high in full sight of at least thirty witnesses. Well-aware of Moriarty's love of the theatrical, Sherlock had been compelled to investigate every aspect of the explosion for signs of trickery or deceit, but he had found nothing. As far as Sherlock, and the rest of the world, was concerned, Moriarty was dead. 

Only now it was clear that both he and the rest of the world were wrong. He'd been fooled. 

And why? Because he'd wanted to be fooled.

It was less than a mile between the Royal Palms and his motel, but even walking at his usual pace, it seemed farther. There could be no doubt who the creepy little mick - the creepy little mick hell-bent on ending the Holmeses, good and proper - was. Where Moriarty and The Roman intersected was less clear, but that mattered little now. How had he been so abominably stupid?

He was an idiot, an idiot who had been so careless as to breed with Moriarty on the loose. Moriarty had no doubt had his sights on the child before he was born, before he was even conceived, perhaps. Because Moriarty had known - he had known things about Sherlock, things about Sherlock and Molly, even before Sherlock himself had known them. Sherlock should have known. And it occurred to him that he had failed as a father before he'd even taken his trousers off.

He could fix this. He could. He would return to his room and collect his luggage. Return to England and collect his - Molly and Edmund. Stow them somewhere safe. And then, once that was taken care of, he would kill Jim Moriarty with his own two hands. Dissolve the bones in acid. Set the slurry that remained alight. He would not allow himself to be fooled again. 

He raced through room after room of his mind palace trying to find the ideal location in which to sequester Molly and his son, until he was running, literally running, to his seedy motel without realizing it. 

He stood, at last, outside the gaudy pink door, keycard in hand. From the other side of the door, he could hear a mobile phone ringing. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 10/14


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Sustain III: Obbligato 11/14  
** Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda  
See Chapter One for Details

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John's first instinct was to run after Sherlock.

John's second instinct was to grab all the evidence he could and run as far and as fast in the other direction as he possibly could. 

He settled on something in the middle - grab what he could, and then run after Sherlock. 

"John," Mycroft said in that oh-so-level tone of his, "I don't know what -"

"It's Moriarty," John said. He threw the note pad and pen in his bag. What else would they need? What else would Sherlock want? He snatched up the sheets Sherlock had printed, strings of numbers and letters, names and dates. 

"James Moriarty is dead," Mycroft said calmly. "You saw it yourself." 

"I've seen plenty of things that turned out not to be true," John answered. 

"But John -"

"Come with, or stay here," John said. "Suit yourself." 

John let the door slam shut behind him. The lift was too slow; he ran down the stairs. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

The ringing came from a phone. A very familiar-looking pink mobile phone, sitting atop the telly. 

He picked it up and a crime scene blinked onto the screen. A murder. 

It sent a thrill through him. And a wave of profoundest dread. 

A woman, French, in her mid-fifties, plain, and plainly dressed. Married. Twice. More happily the second time, likely to a tradesman of some sort. Less happy now that her throat had been slit and she'd been disemboweled. 

It was only after taking in the more obvious details that he took care to examine her face.

A face he hadn't seen since he was seven. 

Evie.

Everything inside him clenched.

He scanned the picture again. Behind the body, on the wall, something was off, something was not right. 

He squinted. 

A picture had been moved. No, replaced. A picture had been removed and replaced with a generic religious print after the crime was committed. He wondered what could have been so incriminating it needed removal. 

No, stupid stupid; that wasn't it at all. 

The point had been the replacement. The Sacred Heart of Jesus. A heart wrapped in barbed wire and set aflame. 

A message: I will burn the heart out of you, Jim Moriarty said.

Understanding came, the way it did, in a rush of adrenalin and images. Sherlock instantly knew. He simply knew.

Had Moriarty's complaint against him been wholly professional, his response would have been professional as well; swift, efficient, impersonal, and deadly. 

Instead, it had been viciously, invasively personal. Intimate, even.

Moriarty wanted him to know what he was doing. And he wanted him to know why. He was also counting on Sherlock to remember him. 

Which was asking a bit much, really, as Moriarty had been little more than a buzzing gnat the first time they met. Moriarty had not been his surname, then. James hadn't been his Christian name, either.

If only he had been paying any bleeding attention at the time. It was his own stupid, stupid fault. All of it. Evie. The 'bombings.' The baby farms, because undoubtedly there were more, elsewhere. The vast criminal network. The references, vague and less so, to things Czechoslovakian. Carl Powers. All of it. All because, twenty years earlier, Sherlock couldn't be bothered. But now he remembered. 

The giggle should have done it. The giggle and the glimpse of Jim's profile. He marveled that he hadn't recognized him before. He had worked to delete the whole moronic business from his memory, and on that count, he had nearly been successful. 

Sherlock had been fourteen at the time and an old hand at psychiatrists. Dr. Pospisil was so barely competent it was horrifying. Like most shrinks, he had a handful of pet diagnoses that he recycled for all his patients. The most memorable thing about Pospisil had been his disastrous notion that Sherlock could gain something from group therapy. It was likely a decision based on fifty weeks of silent sessions spent with a surly teenager completely capable of holding out indefinitely.

Of course, because Pospisil made a point of introducing Sherlock to the group as 'rather shy,' Sherlock, in turn, made a point of speaking in the group. Not that he gave out anything personal. Rather, he commented in ways that likely made Pospisil wish he had continued in his silence.

Some of the brighter members of the group seemed to appreciate a well-placed comment. One session in particular, his last, stood out his memory.

"You know, it occurs to me that child psychologists are rather like paedophiles, inasmuch as they seek out of children because they don't feel quite up to handling adults," young Sherlock had said, crossing his legs in conscious mimicry of a gesture his elder brother would have made after delivery a _coup de grace._

One boy, Richard Something, who looked nine but was closer to thirteen, had laughed a strange, high-pitched laugh while the others looked on blankly.

When it had been Dick's turn to tell about himself, a few weeks earlier, Dick had revealed he was in care, having been taken from his mother after his brother died of what the authorities deemed neglect. The mother in question had subsequently been beaten to death by a boyfriend, and it was thought little Dickie could benefit from counseling. He lived with a series of nice families, but he didn't care for them. 

It didn't take much, now that Sherlock knew that 'Jim' was Dick, to put together that one had been the Powers family.

 _What do you feel about the death of your mother?_ Pospisil had asked.

 _Not much,_ Dick had replied in his Irish brogue, trying, Sherlock saw, to sound cool and unaffected, while he seethed and fought back tears. _I'd've slit that ugly slag's throat myself if I'd half a chance._

At the time, Sherlock had taken it for the grandiose bragging of a twelve year old with an audience. He had known it was not good when he said it, but he could not bear to hear Dickie's voice breaking any longer.

 _Everyone dies eventually. Does it really matter when?_ Sherlock had said. _That's what people do._

That's what he told himself about his grandmother. That's what he told himself about himself.

Now that Sherlock knew who Jim Moriarty really was, he had a good idea exactly what he was up to. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~::~:~:~:~:~:

By the time Mycroft and he got to Sherlock's motel room, both Sherlock and his things were gone. But there, on the bureau, was a pink phone and a note.

The note said:

TeLL MYCROFT I'vE GONE TO THE POOL. SEE YOU AT SIX. 

"Bugger," John said, and handed it to Mycroft. "He's gone to meet Moriarty." 

"Obviously," Mycroft said. "At the pool? There's nothing but rubble there now."

John shook his head and powered up the phone. "No. He wanted me to tell you, so what it says and what it means are two different things. Not necessarily opposites, but different." John thought about it for a moment. "Do you have a swimming pool?" 

Mycroft sniffed. "A few, yes." 

"Helpful, that, then." The phone came to life in John's hand. "Shit." He showed Mycroft the screen. "Please tell me this isn't someone you know." 

Mycroft blinked at the screen. It only took him a few moments to answer. "Evangeline Menard." 

John frowned. "And she is?"

"Sherlock's former nanny. Evie," Mycroft said, as if he were talking to a very slow child. He rattled the note at John. "E. V. He wants a three hour headstart, as you've no doubt worked out by now. And he's headed to our mother's home. 

"He is?" John asked. "Why?" 

Mycroft withdrew is own phone from his pocket and began dialing. "Because," he said, calm as always, "our mother, my wife and daughters, Dr. Hooper, and Edmund are there. And Jim Moriarty intends to kill them all." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Violet's phone rang. 

Kubis, again. 

He was becoming persistent. She'd already told him - twice - her family were visiting and she couldn’t get away. 

"Perhaps we could come to you, no?" he suggested. "A few hours, yes? In, out, practice, practice. Then we will go. Over. Done." 

She sighed, but he was right; the violas did need practice, but when didn't they?

"Fine," she said at last. They could come for a rehearsal in the afternoon. After all, the boys weren't at the house, and Pip and Mary wouldn't mind. 

Yes, she'd let them know at the gate to let them through.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock looked down into the clouds, willing the plane he'd chartered to fly faster. While he knew, objectively, that Moriarty had waited this long for Sherlock's undivided attention and that he would no doubt wait longer, some part of him, some part that served no useful function whatsoever, kept reminding him it might already be too late.

In his mind, he had buried Edmund and Molly both a dozen times since he'd left the runway.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Genevieve Marguerite Holmes had never before been afraid. 

She hadn't known it, of course. She thought she'd been afraid of school exams, those screaming mazes on the internet she and Gemma liked to prank their friends with, and Meredith, the biggest cow in the entire school. But no; that had been something else, not real fear. She knew that now because, for the first time in her life, she was truly afraid.

Four men, dressed entirely in black, stood in the grand hall, each holding a gun. Not hunting rifles, but the sort of guns they had in films Mummy didn't want them watching. Bad guns for bad men. 

She was having trouble thinking, having trouble breathing, having trouble not wetting herself. Her insides felt shaky and cold, and everything in her wanted to roll into a ball and cry. 

But she remembered something, something important that their father had drilled into them, over and over. Talks from Daddy that the girls were under strictest direction not to discuss with Mummy. Talks they had when they were supposed to be going to the ice cream shop in the village. 

Talks that were always the same:

"Remember, girls, in the unlikely event that you are confronted by adults who would do you harm, particularly armed adults, the most important rule is to stay calm. It is perfectly acceptable to be afraid, but it is never acceptable to panic. Co-operate. Keep quiet. And observe. The smallest detail can make the greatest difference. And should something such as this ever happen to either of you, remember, I am on my way, and I will take care of it. Now, please, eat your ice cream so as not to make a liar of me." 

Genevieve looked at Gemma, and knew what she was thinking. She knew she was thinking about those talks from Daddy, too. She was thinking he was very good at shooting paper targets and clay pigeons, but four real, live men seemed very different. Daddy was a big, soft man who was a bit afraid of the dentist; how could he possibly save them?

Mummy was white, sweaty, and trembling; that was no good. It's never acceptable to panic. Hadn't Daddy given her the lesson? Hadn't she listened to him?

Genevieve tried to catch Mummy's eye and will her into calming down. Then her hands were tied, tape was placed over her mouth, and the blindfold went on, and it was dark, dark and terrifying, but it was never acceptable to panic. Never. All she could do was sit and listen, do her best to follow Daddy's advice.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

The first thing Gemma saw when they took her blindfold off ages later was Grand-mere, almost stumbling into the lounge. There was a man behind her - he must have pushed Grand-mere in - a little man in a suit, with round black eyes in a small, pale face, and bleached blond hair that was darker close to his head, and that stood up on end, like a pop star. Grand-mere's hair was a fright, and her blouse was torn, missing the two top buttons. Small details, but the smallest detail could make the greatest difference. That's what Daddy said. 

Across the gallery, like looking at her own reflection in a pond, was Genevieve, her hands tied, blindfold hanging about her neck, sliver tape across her mouth,. But Genevieve was not looking at her, she was looking at something else, her eyes big as dinner plates. It was only by following her sister's line of sight that she saw -

Oh no.

Oh no no no. 

Aunt Mary was tied to the library table in the middle of the room. 

Aunt Mary looked like a giant X, arms and legs bound with rope. Smooth, brown rope. 

At the other end of the room, near the foot of the staircase, Mummy was tied to a chair. Like Genevieve. Like Gemma, herself. Only Mummy's mouth wasn't taped.

The blond man stood looking round the room, the way Mummy did when she was at her Orphans' Office. He had a strange little smile on his face, like he knew a good secret. "Where's that baby? The guest of honour's on his way and you lot aren't ready. Next time, I'm going with a different event planner if you don't get on it." His voice was strange and high and he talked in a funny sing song sort of way. Then he shouted, in a shrill, angry voice, "Where's that fucking baby!?" 

Almost as soon as he lost it, it seemed like he pushed his temper back down. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, - his left hand, that might be important - breathed out, smiling.

"Got him," someone called. It was one of the men in the all-black clothes from before. He was leaning over the upstairs gallery rails, dangling Edmund.

"Be careful, you fucking idiot," the blond man said. "He's of no use if you kill him now." 

Grand-mere gasped. "Kubis!"

"Please, Jim, please. I'll do anything, anything you ask, just don't hurt my baby, please." 

"'Please, Jim, please.'" The blond man mimicked Aunt Mary, making a face. 

"Kubis, please," Grand-mere said.

"No, no, Molly has it right, Violet, dear," he said. "It's Jim, actually, Jim Moriarty. Hi!" He waved.

The blond man - Jim, he called himself, Jim Moriarty - said, "Now that we're all acquainted - some of us more intimately than others -" he said that, and began stroking Aunt Mary's hair, then stroking her shoulder, "- tell me ladies, has Sherlock never mentioned me? He and I are such old friends!"

Aunt Mary closed her eyes. Grand-mere looked at Mummy and Genevieve and Gemma. 

"You mean that little shit is behind this?" Mummy said. She was as angry as Gemma had ever seen her.

"Oh no, Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Phillipa Augusta Elizabeth Antonia Sherlock-Holmes - ridiculous name, by the way, you should think about changing it, really, it's easily enough done - no, no, 'I'm' behind this," Jim, said. He knelt down close to Mummy, so he was almost breathing in her face. Mummy tried to turn her head away, but Jim grabbed her under the chin and twisted her head back so she was looking right at him. "Let's just say Sherlock is my inspiration, shall we? The wind beneath my wings!"

Mummy was breathing so hard. "What - what will it take to put an end to this, now?" Mummy asked. "How much do you want?"

Jim giggled, then stood up. "You're confused about who's in charge, aren't you?" he asked, and then crossed back to Aunt Mary. "Kind of cute, you trying to buy me off. I cut loose thirty million quid one time just to get Sherlock's attention, didn't I, Molly?" 

Aunt Mary said nothing. 

"I said, 'didn't I, Molly?'" He reached out and grabbed Aunt Mary's breast and twisted and twisted. Aunt Mary whimpered and then she sobbed.

"Well, take my word for it, I did. And you can't afford me, darling." He giggled again and licked his lips. "Speaking of cute things, nice twins. They on the blob yet?"

Gemma wasn't sure what that meant. She had a feeling it wasn't nice, though, because Mummy was suddenly very still and very pale. 

Jim walked up to Genevieve. He looked her in the eyes, then licked his lips. Gemma could tell Genevieve was trying to keep still, trying not to cry. Quick as anything, Jim bent down and kissed her on the cheek, then popped back up again. 

"No worries," he said. "I'm here for Sherlock."

"I told you, Kubis, Sherlock's not even here," Grand-mere said.

"Oh, but he will be," Jim said. He rolled his wide eyes and grinned like a cartoon tiger. "And when he arrives, we're going to have sooo much fun!" 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Before John even had time to gather his things, a team of cleaners arrived at the motel room. Well, they were dressed like cleaners, and carried equipment cleaners might have, but they moved with military efficiency, and the silence of assassins. Very well trained assassins. 

Mycroft had been on his phone, texting or talking in short, cryptic bursts, the entire time. "Do leave that, John," he said as John tried to pack up his shaving kit. "All this - " he made a vague, all-encompassing gesture "- will have to be sterilized."

"Sterilized?" John asked. "My clothes?"

Mycroft looked him up and down quickly, his expression just this side of sour. "Nothing that can't be replaced, surely?" 

John sighed. Mycroft wasn't really asking. "I reckon not."

"Good. Now, text your wife, please." 

John fished his phone out of his pocket. "Tell her what, exactly?" 

"Tell her that you're making no real headway, that this is a wild goose chase, that my brother is a tosser, and that you'll be here at least another three days," Mycroft answered. "Add any embellishments or endearments you deem necessary. Do be sure it sounds as if it's originated with you." 

"R-right," John said. He'd sent texts that sounded exactly like that on more than one occasion, so that was easy enough. He composed the message as quickly as he could and sent it. "Done." 

Mycroft held out his hand. "Phone, please." 

"What for?" John asked, but handed it over, just the same. 

Mycroft gave John's phone, and then his own, to one of the 'cleaners,' who dropped it in a covered mop bucket. Instead of simply splashing, the liquid in the bucket began to froth and fume. "Sterilization. I'll replace it, of course."

"Of course," John said. 

Mycroft pulled another phone from his pocket, one identical to the one he'd just had dissolved, and sent a short text. 

"What happens now?" John asked. 

"Now," Mycroft answered, as he crossed to open the door, "we head for the airbase. By the time we arrive, there will be a transonic jet awaiting us. We'll land at Welford in five hours, give or take a few minutes." 

John frowned. "Your brother asked for a head start, Mycroft." 

Mycroft didn't quite roll his eyes. "Sherlock asks for many things, John. I generally say 'no.'"

"But -" 

"It's always with his best interest in mind," Mycroft added. 

"Yes, but -" 

"He's gone to confront Moriarty. Alone. He thinks he can take on months and months of planning and preparation on the part of that madman with sheer bravado and a Stradivarius." Mycroft paused for a fraction of a second. His left eyelid twitched. "He'll get everyone killed." 

John nodded. Sherlock was brilliant, every bit as brilliant as Jim, probably, but Jim was - 

Fucking nuts, actually. 

"You may come with me, John, or you may remain here. You've done more than I asked of you, and I will consider myself indebted to you, whatever path you choose." As Mycroft said this, a car, very sleek and very black, pulled up outside the door. 

John thought about it for perhaps three seconds, then shook his head, and resisted the urge to laugh at himself. _As if, Watson,_ he thought. _Who can you possibly think you're fooling?"_

"Well?"

"Transonic, eh? What the hell - count me in." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 11/14


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Sustain III: Obbligato 12/14  
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda**  
See Chapter One for Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Edmund, who had been so good and so quiet through the hours and hours Jim had been holding them all in the library, began to fuss. Jim gave one of the men a funny look, and for a moment Gemma was afraid they were going to hurt the baby. Instead, the man picked him up out of the playpen and tried to settle him. Edmund didn't like it though, and squirmed harder.

"Oh for - give that brat to Mrs. Holmes, you idiot," Jim snapped. Then he smiled broadly, and his eyes went all round. "Oh, they're all Mrs. Holmes, aren't they? Oh, not quite." He crossed to the table where Aunt Mary was still held tight be those ropes. "Not you, Molly. Your boyfriend's not willing to make an honest woman of you, is he? God, I still don't know what he ever saw in you." He dragged his finger along Aunt Mary's face and she tried to jerk away. "I wonder, does he see it still, Molly?" 

"Sir?" the man holding Edmund said. 

"Oh, give him to the old one." Jim jerked his head toward Grand-mere.

"My hands are tied, Kub- Jim," Grand-mere said. 

"You may call me 'Sir.'" Jim said. Gemma watched, terrified, as Jim reached into his breast pocket. Was he going to pull out a gun and shoot Grand-mere? But no, he pulled out a folding knife, instead. "Sherlock has one of these, too, you know," he said, showing it to Grand-mere. "Keeps it on the mantel, well, _in_ the mantel. And I guess I should say he _kept_ it in the mantel, because, oh look! It's mine now!" 

Grand-mere sighed, just a little, with relief when Jim cut her hands loose. Watching Grand-mere move her arms about freely made Gemma's arms ache more than they already were. 

"Now, Violet, m'dear," Jim said, with his face very, very close to Grand-mere's "there are four rifles focused on little Sherlock here." 

As he said this, Gemma saw four red dots, like laser pointers, appeared on the baby's belly. She looked up to the gallery, where four men in black - four men she didn't notice before - leaned over the rails with rifles, all pointed at her cousin. She could feel all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and her stomach felt so, so tight. 

"There would have been six, you know," Jim went one, "but your security was a teeny tiny bit better than I had anticipated. For a wee while, at least. Very clever of you to have had a former Mossad sniper pushing the tea trolley around this old heap. Doesn't matter now, though, because - _they're - all - dead!_ " 

"His - his name is Edmund," Grand-mere said. 

"Right, right, Edmund," Jim said, nodding his head. "Like I fucking care!" 

He yelled it right in Grand-mere's face, so loud it echoed everywhere. Everyone jumped, and Edmund cried harder. She was so afraid, then, so afraid Jim would hurt Edmund, would hurt them all. 

Gemma looked at her sister. She could tell she was having a hard time not crying, too. Daddy would be so ashamed if he knew how scared she was, how scared they both were. 

Jim snapped his fingers. "Tape," he said, and one of his men handed him a roll of thick, silvery tape. He began winding it round Grand-mere, leaving her arms free, but taping her body and legs to the chair so she couldn't move even a little. "Either way, darling, Junior here gets blown to bits, and no one wants that, do they?" He smiled at Mummy and Gemma, blew Genevieve a kiss. 

The man holding Edmund handed him to Grand-mere. Edmund was still unhappy, but he began to settle. The four red dots were still on him, but Jim said no one wanted the baby dead, right? Maybe that was true. Maybe they'd all be all right. 

Or - or maybe Daddy really would save them. He promised. He always promised. 

Big, soft Daddy, who liked silly jokes and sweets, and moved around bits of paper. 

She felt a tear roll down her cheek. Then another and another. 

 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Jim blew her a kiss, and everything in Genevieve went cold. So cold, she started to shiver. She tried hard to fight the feeling, to tell herself it was silly, to remind herself to remain calm, co-operate, and observe, all the things Daddy told them. But Jim was so, so -

She shivered again. 

She wasn't a baby. She was twelve-years-old. She knew about rape and sexual assault and that adults should not be acting this way with children. It was wrong. It was sick. It was terrifying. 

She looked at her sister. Gemma wasn’t sobbing, but two, no, three tears had worked their way down her face and dripped off her chin and onto her shirt. No, no, no! she wanted to scream. If Gemma lost the plot, she would too. No!

There was a strange sound then, a tinny kind of music, coming from somewhere. 

"Oh, is that me?!!" Jim said. He looked at his phone. It was weird. Pink. A girl's phone. She wondered if he had taken it from some other little girl.

Jim put his head down, grinning like he was having the best birthday ever, and began texting like mad. He laughed a crazy laugh and yelled at his phone, "Oh, you think so, do you?" 

"I do think so," she heard a familiar voice say. "Or perhaps you'd prefer we spoke in person." 

Uncle Sherlock. It was Uncle Sherlock. He appeared, like a wizard, out of thin air, and strolled over to stand between Jim and Edmund, blocking the lasers. The four red lights were on him now, but he looked like he didn’t care at all. 

Genevieve strained, looking for her Daddy. Daddy said if they were ever in trouble, he would be on his way. He promised. Why was Uncle Sherlock here and not Daddy? 

Genevieve had heard adults talking about Uncle Sherlock her whole life, and not too much of it was good. Mummy used words like 'irresponsible' and 'childish' and 'useless' and was always telling Daddy, when she thought she and Gemma couldn’t hear, that Daddy should just let Sherlock kill himself if he was so damned determined. 

He wasn't mean or cruel about it, but Uncle Sherlock didn't really like them; she knew that. She didn't know for sure that Uncle Sherlock liked anyone very much. He loved Grand-mere, she supposed, and he seemed to like Aunt Mary well enough, but it wasn't all romantic like Mummy and Daddy. And he played with Edmund and held him, so Uncle Sherlock probably liked him too, a bit. If he had come to rescue just them, though, who was going to rescue her and Gemma and Mummy? 

A feeling, one she had never felt before, swept over her, and she fought back the sudden urge to vomit, cry, and pee, all at once. Then it hit her; panic. This is what panic felt like. 

_'It is never acceptable to panic,'_ Daddy had told her. Scared was all right, even sensible, sometimes, but not panic. She forced herself to sit up straight and pushed the feeling down until her arms felt as though ice water ran in her veins.

"Oh goody, you're here!" Jim said, acting like Uncle Sherlock was his best friend in the whole world. "Finally, finally, finally! I can start really hurting people, now!" 

Uncle Sherlock did that thing he did sometimes, where he rolled his eyes so big when he thought someone was being stupid. She almost wanted to laugh, it looked so silly. 

"But first," Jim continued, "let's make sure you don't make a nuisance of yourself." He held up some plastic zip ties like he'd cut from Grand-mere.

"Bondage, Jim? That's a bit cliché, even for you," Uncle Sherlock said.

"I consider it more classic!" Jim giggled. "Now, turn round, you! Oh, this is such fun!" He pulled the ties tight and was practically wiggling with joy like a happy puppy.

Uncle Sherlock did another eye-roll and sighed. He looked more annoyed than bothered. And he didn’t look a bit frightened. 

She hoped that was a good sign.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Complete surprise at Uncle Sherlock's appearance had stopped the crying fit Gemma was afraid she was going to have. Complete surprise and shock, maybe. Why was he here? She didn't think having him here could make this situation any better. 

Uncle Sherlock grinned pleasantly at Jim. "So, now that we've dispensed with the pleasantries - " 

"You're not in charge here, Sherlock," Jim said. "I've got your girlfriend - " he said and ran two fingers up the inside of Aunt Mary's leg, " - and I've got your spawn." Jim kept running his hand up and down Aunt Mary's leg, but he was looking at Uncle Sherlock the whole time, his hand going higher and higher up under her skirt each time. 

"Stop it, please," Aunt Mary said. 

"What's wrong, Molly? I thought you said I was good with my hands?" Jim said. 

Uncle Sherlock made a noise like he was trying not to laugh. "Wrong on both counts." 

"How d'you mean?" Jim asked. He did something to Aunt Mary that made her yelp. Genevieve felt embarrassed for her.

"She is not my girlfriend," Uncle Sherlock said, like it was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard, "and that is not my whelp."

"Oh, come off it," Jim said, not looking or sounding a bit pleased.

"Come, now. Surely you're as aware of my - proclivities - as I am of yours." Uncle Sherlock looked at Gemma, then at her sister. "But my brother will be delighted to hear someone fell for his transparent little ruse."

"Little Sherlock Junior looks just like you," Jim said. That was true, she thought. They had that way of smiling when that made them look a bit like pelicans.

"Family resemblance, nothing more," Uncle Sherlock said. 

"What?" Jim said. "Your brother? You expect me to believe that?" 

"It's hardly a new story, is it? Older, more established brother uses younger, financially-strapped brother, whose interests lie elsewhere, let us say, as a cover for his mistress and bastard child. Younger brother has cash, older brother has his favourite thing, plausible deniability." He turned to look at Mummy. "Hardly news, is it, Pip?" 

Mummy glared at Uncle Sherlock. "I knew Mary was too good for you, Sherlock," she snarled.

"Too good for me, yes, but too good for your loving husband? Apparently not." 

"Do fuck off, Sherlock," Mummy said. Gemma had never heard her say that word before. 

Uncle Sherlock grinned a smug grin. "You first," he said. 

Gemma couldn’t believe in the middle of all this, Uncle Sherlock still had it in him to row with Mummy.

"Such language, and in front of the children!" Jim eyes gleamed. He snapped his fingers and pointed to Mummy and one of the men in black taped Mummy's mouth shut.

"Excellent idea." Uncle Sherlock's smile got bigger. 

Something about his smile made Jim angry, Gemma could tell. "Not your girlfriend? Then you won't mind if I have it off with her, will you?" Jim asked. "You know, one last hurrah, for old time's sake, and all that?" 

Uncle Sherlock just shrugged. "Suit yourself. Although why you'd want Mycroft's sloppy seconds I can't guess. Though I suppose they were your sloppy seconds to start, come to that." 

Gemma closed her eyes, trying to figure out what they were talking about, trying to figure out if any of it was important, if any of it was information she needed to hold on to until Daddy arrived to save them. And he would. She knew he would. But - but she tried to puzzle it out. 

Daddy was the only older brother Uncle Sherlock had - 

If Aunt Mary wasn't really Uncle Sherlock's girlfriend - 

If Edmund wasn't Uncle Sherlock's baby - 

If Edmund only looked like Uncle Sherlock because - 

She took a deep breath. No. No. Her Daddy wasn't like that. He wasn't. He was busy, that was all. Busy pushing paper. Her guts churned.

If it was all true, she'd go back to school as one of those girls with a step-mother and a half-brother. Mummy wasn't a good loser; neither was Daddy, come to that, and if Aunt Mary was really Daddy's girlfriend, there was no way things could go back to how they were, was there? 

The idea of lifetime of her parents hating each other was so awful that Gemma wondered, for one brief second, if it might not be easier if Jim and his men killed them all.

Oh God, no. No. She still wanted Daddy to come rescue them, because Uncle Sherlock, getting caught right off and tied up, clearly wasn’t up to it. But she didn’t want to hear what Mummy was going to say to Daddy when she saw him next.

Aunt Mary whimpered and the sound made Gemma open her eyes.

Uncle Sherlock was sitting like when he was about to vanish the way he did at Christmas, and the next time you saw him, he would be behind the stables, smoking. Mummy said cigarettes were a filthy habit. She did her smoking in the downstairs lav nearest the kitchen, with her head hanging out the window.

Jim was holding that knife again, smiling sweetly. "Shame, really. There's just something a tad more, oh I don't know, _transgressive_ I suppose, about violating a woman while her lover looks on helplessly." 

"Jim, please," Aunt Mary said.

"I never did entirely understand what the attraction was." Jim kept talking. "She does give a good blow job, but well, those are a penny a pound, aren't they? She is an insatiable little vixen, I'll grant her that, but insatiably gets tiresome so quickly, doesn't it? All that cheerful lust - it's like eating a bowl of sugar. And she's such a screamer when she gets going. But then, you know that, don't you?" 

Uncle Sherlock sniffed. "You'd have to ask my brother." 

"Oh, please," Jim said. "Or, or no. Perhaps you share her with your brother. Perhaps that's it!"

Uncle Sherlock's lip curled. 

Jim laughed at that. "Violet's more of groaner, you know. Perhaps you're more familiar with Violet's habits? She certainly is fond of her baby boy."

Edmund whimpered on Grand-mere's lap.

"Sherlock, please," Aunt Mary said again.

" _'Sherlock, please,'_ " Uncle Sherlock mocked. 

"Sherl -" Aunt Mary started again. 

"Oh, do shut up, Molly," Uncle Sherlock said roughly. 

Edmund whimpered again, and Uncle Sherlock spun round to look at him. "Shut that brat up, Mother, or I'll have to do it, and I don't think anyone would much appreciate my methods."

At that moment, Gemma decided Sherlock was no uncle of hers. He was worse than Jim, so much worse. She officially hated him. 

"Oh bravo, bravo," Jim said. "You're such a good liar, Sherlock, you probably don't know yourself when you're telling the truth. And Molly, here? She never knows, does she? Even when you mean it, it might be a lie. So are you lying when you whisper sweet nothings, or are you lying when you say she doesn't mean a thing to you? Let's find out, shall we?" 

Jim had been running the blade of his knife up and down Aunt Mary's leg the whole time. Gemma couldn't see quite what Jim was doing from where she was but going by Genevieve's face it was not nice. 

Aunt Mary made a horrible hissing noise. 

"Oops," Jim said. "Sorry about that, Molly. That cut was a bit deep, wasn't it? But you aren't going to be needing that blood for long, anyway."

"Instrumentation, Jim?" Uncle Sherlock said. "Really? Is it a medical issue or merely psychological?"

Jim stopped cutting and looked up at Sherlock. "Neither, thank you very much. I'm still recovering from your mother, actually. She's quite a fighter for a woman her age. It would have been Violet here on the table, but then I found out the most wonderful little secret. D'you want to know what it is?" 

"Not especially." Uncle Sherlock sounded bored. 

"Our Molly's up the duff again! How could I resist doing her first?" Jim asked. He rubbed his hand over Aunt Mary's stomach. "Someone's getting a visit from Uncle Jim!"

Uncle Sherlock blinked. "Oh, Molly. Are you really that stupid? My brother is never going to leave that cow, no matter how many little bastards you squeeze out. Pip's the one with all the money."

"Oh, look," Jim said, sounding surprised, "now you've made her cry. That wasn't very nice."

"I have been reliably informed that I'm not a nice man." Uncle Sherlock inhaled a bit deeper than he had before but it only took a moment, a blink and it was gone, then he scowled. "Tell me, did you violate Evangeline Menard, as well?"

"Liked my party invitation, did you?" Jim grinned a little grin. "Designed it, yes, but I do delegate some of the smaller jobs." 

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I presume?" Sherlock said. "Nee Moranescu? The Roman?" 

"The one and only," Jim said. "Well done!" 

"And he's not joining us?" 

Jim shook his head. "Can't say where he buggered off to. Don't much care, really. But oh, the fun Seb and I have had mucking about with your brother and dad and the rest of MI6! It's true, isn't it? 'Military intelligence' really is an oxymoron." 

Sherlock snorted. 

"You interfering with Seb's franchisees in Birmingham might have exposed the whole operation. He didn’t appreciate that, not one bit. He’s so sentimental about those youthful endeavors of ours. Did you know little Carl’s Mum kept dogs? Little yappy show dogs?" Suddenly Jim's expression was hard, serious. "You were annoying Seb, so he called me. Told him I could fix it. And fix you. Two birds, one stone." His hand jerked again and Aunt Mary cried out. 

"Shush, Molly," Jim said. "Femoral artery has to be here somewhere. I'll just keep poking until I find it, shall I?" 

"Carl wasn't the first brother you killed, was he?" Sherlock asked, squinting at Jim, and a chill ran through Gemma as she wondered who Carl was. 

Jim's expression changed, and he suddenly looked very serious. He put his knife down, very carefully, and began clapping, but slowly. "Oh, well done again, Mr. Holmes, well done." Jim exhaled sharply before putting on a false smile. "One gets so tired waiting for the slower members of the class."

Uncle Sherlock lifted his chin a bit. "He was the first one you killed deliberately, though, wasn't he?" 

Jim smiled that scary smile again. "It's only murder if you mean it!" he sang. "And believe me, with Carl, I meant it." 

"You were responsible for the death of your older brother, though, weren't you? High palate and large tongues are typical with Down's Syndrome, but how was a nine-year-old to know? Your mother was neglectful, promiscuous, and when she did give you attention it was always the wrong sort, wasn’t it? Then she stupidly left you in charge so she could go on a ‘date’. And all you wanted was to be left alone to read. You gave Davy the sweets your mum kept in the locked cabinet because he couldn’t have them without fear of choking, which is exactly what happened, isn't it?" 

Jim shrugged. "It was bound to happen sooner or later." 

"So not only were you responsible for his death, but for you being taken into care as well. Pity is so much worse than being the creepy little sod with a mentally defective older brother and a mother who ceaselessly embarrasses you, isn't it? Worse still were her visits, alternately self-loathing and self-pitying, and that’s when she showed up sober. All the while, you knew you were responsible for her downward spiral. Worse and worse boyfriends. More and more drinking. All of which ultimately led to her death. I assume that's why you took the name of the boyfriend who beat her head in? A sort of memorial? Touching." 

"Isn't it?" Jim smiled. 

"So what is the point of all this?" Sherlock asked. Gemma couldn't understand how he could sound so bored, like they were playing a dull card game or watching something awful on the telly, instead of being held hostage by all these men with guns. 

Jim shrugged again. "For a giggle." 

"Why not just have one of your people pick me off with a rifle on any street corner in London, or run me down with a lorry, or any of a dozen other possibilities? Botulinum, perhaps, as you seem to enjoy that one a great deal? Why the big production? You must admit, it's a bit overdone." 

"Where would be the fun in that?" Jim asked all big eyed. "Killing is the least of what I'm going to do to you. First, I'm going to hurt and kill everyone you care for while you stand by, unable to stop me. Then, not only am I going to kill you, I am going to make certain you're blamed for their murders."

Gemma's heart hammered. He was going to kill them all. She was breathing so hard she felt dizzy. 

Uncle Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a face like Jim was just too stupid. That didn't seem smart. She hoped he had a plan. Or that Daddy was almost ready to rescue them. 

Jim picked up his knife again. He rubbed the blade over Aunt Mary's leg like he was spreading jam on toast. "You are a diagnosed sociopath, after all. It's not a difficult leap. And let's be honest, Sherlock, it's a leap all sorts of people just can't wait to make. They don't like you very much, do they? People, I mean? All except Molly here, and look where it's got her. Bleeding out all over your Mummy's lovely carpet."

"'High functioning sociopath' was Pospisil's exact diagnosis," Uncle Sherlock said. 

"But Pospisil was a quack, wasn't he? I know all about you. I've read your files, read 'em yonks ago. Where do you think I found out about your Evangeline?" Jim asked. "The point is, you'll never be 'Sherlock Holmes the Great Detective' again. Instead, you'll be 'Sherlock Holmes the Mass Murdering Freak." Jim pretended to be shocked, and talked in a funny voice. "'Did you hear what he did to those sweet little girls?' they'll ask each other. "'That sick fuck.' And that'll be you, Sherlock." 

"Your mistake is in thinking any of this matters to me in the slightest. I will, by your own reckoning, be dead, after all." Uncle Sherlock shrugged and looked out of the corner of his eye at Grand-mere so quick Gemma almost didn't catch it. It was a good thing Jim had so many people to keep track of. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Genevieve was trying not to cry, but it was getting harder and harder. The tape on her mouth made it so difficult to breath and, oh God oh God, Jim was going to kill them, kill them and do horrible things to them, to their bod - 

Oh God - 

She closed her eyes tightly, and realized she was rocking back and forth in her seat as much as the rope would let her. She tilted her head back. Her chest was heaving now. They hadn't taken them to use the toilets in hours and she was so afraid she was going to wet herself. She wanted her father, wanted him to come and save them, but she was almost glad he couldn't see her being such a baby. 

She opened her eyes. Something flashed past one of the windows above the gallery, something too big, too solid to be a bird. 

Then, all at once -

\- Jim turned round to Aunt Mary and, with his blood covered-knife, cut the tie on one side of her dress.

\- Grand-mere shouted, "Descendez!" and, with Edmund still in her arms, threw her chair over on its side. 

\- Edmund screamed like she'd never heard him scream before.

\- she tipped her own chair over, and watched as Gemma and Mummy did, too. 

\- glass fell like rain from above as the skylights shattered.

\- two bullets hit right where Grand-mere and Edmund had been just a second before. The leg of Grand-mere's chair splintered into a million pieces.

\- the men in the black fell over the gallery railings and crashed to the floor.

\- Aunt Mary cried out as Jim slashed his knife across her breast.

While all that was happening, Uncle Sherlock somehow lifted his arms as high as he could behind him, then brought his hands down hard against his back. From what she could see, crumpled over on her side as she was, all that did was cut his wrists badly, and there was blood all over his trousers and the back of his shirt. He did it again, lifting his arms higher than they ought to go, and brought them down hard. This time, the plastic cuffs split wide open, setting him free. He hissed a breath in through his teeth and his right arm dangled in a funny way, but that didn't stop him from leaping, like a leopard attacking a deer, at Jim.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

One of the men from the gallery fell with a jarring thud right in front of Gemma. His back was to her, but she could see his blood slowly trickling from the tiny hole in his back, and even though she could barely catch her own breath, she could tell he wasn't breathing. She tried to scramble away from him, tried to move, but her chair had fallen over in a way that made that impossible. 

He was a bad person. He was going to kill her. And now he was dead, and she should be happy, she should be relieved, but all she felt was scared. So scared. She couldn't look away from him. 

Then she saw movement to her right. Somehow, Uncle Sherlock diving at Jim. 

Gemma watched as Jim slashed the knife at Uncle Sherlock's neck, but Uncle Sherlock twisted and pushed Jim so hard that Jim tumbled backwards. 

Quick as a cat, Uncle Sherlock was on Jim again, fighting for the knife. They rolled over and over, getting closer and closer to her. She could see now that there was something wrong with Uncle Sherlock's right arm, but he was on top again, and he somehow shoved it hard against Jim's throat, his elbow cutting into the little man's windpipe.

For one horrid moment, both men had hold of the knife, Jim, with two hands, and Uncle Sherlock, with only one. 

And then.

And then.

And then, Uncle Sherlock had the knife.

Without hesitating even an instant, he jammed the blade into Jim's chest, then pushed his whole body down against it, like he was trying to force even the handle through Jim's ribs.

"And Jim," Uncle Sherlock said, looking down on the other man.

"Yes, dear?" Jim, whose voice was suddenly so raspy and whose skin was suddenly so pale, said.

"You were right. I am a fantastic liar," Uncle Sherlock said, ripping the knife sideways, hard. "And Edmund Hooper is most definitely my son." 

"Knew it!" Jim said weakly. His awful smile was back. 

Uncle Sherlock's lip curled and he growled, he absolutely growled, and jerked the knife out of Jim's chest. Blood sprayed up from the wound, and covered Uncle Sherlock, and dripped back down on Jim. Jim tried to say more but more blood came gurgling out of his mouth in a pink foam. 

Uncle Sherlock stood, breathing hard through his mouth like he'd just run a race. He looked around the room quickly, at all the dead men on the floor. Then, after a beat, he was all over Aunt Mary, cutting her free with the same knife Jim had cut her with, the same knife Uncle Sherlock had stabbed Jim with, the same knife that had put a few nasty cuts in Uncle Sherlock's clothes and three bleeding scratches on his chest.

"I'm-sorry-I'm sorry-I'm sorry," he said to Aunt Mary over and over, like he wasn't thinking about the words at all, but the sounds were just spilling out. 

Aunt Mary rolled to her side, so she was facing the spot where Edmund and Grand-mere were. "Edmund," she said weakly, but Uncle Sherlock had already moved to scoop up Edmund with his good arm. He handed the crying baby to Aunt Mary, then moved back to set Grand-mere free. 

"John! Mycroft!" Uncle Sherlock yelled as he slit the silver tape holding Grand-mere to the broken chair. "I need help, gentlemen. Now!" 

Gemma couldn't hear what Uncle Sherlock was saying to his mother, or what Grand-mere was saying in return, but he led Grand-mere over to the library table and sat her down next to Aunt Mary, and it looked to Gemma like Grand-mere was all right, and Gemma felt so relieved. 

And then, Uncle Sherlock was standing right over her. He kicked the dead man in black out of the way and crouched down next to her. 

"Are you all right, Gemma?" he asked. He pulled the tape from her mouth and it hurt, but he was being careful, she could tell. "Does anything feel broken or strained? Were you - were you assaulted?" Even as he asked, he was very gently running his hand over her arms and neck and head, like he was looking for broken bones or lumps. 

She shook her head and tried to answer, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was a loud sob and the tears she'd been holding in came flooding out. 

"Right," he said. "I'm going to set your chair upright, and cut off the ropes and the tape, and then I am going to see to your sister and mother. You probably shouldn't try to stand too quickly, or you'll collapse. Does that sound all right?" 

All she could do was nod and cry. 

Uncle Sherlock hauled her chair the right way up, and very quickly cut through the tape holding her feet to it, then sliced through the ropes. Her arms felt tingly, all pins-and-needles, then, once they were free, they burned like they were on fire, and they wouldn't move the way she wanted them to. 

Uncle Sherlock squatted in front of her, and ran his hands up and down her arms, like he was trying to warm her. It felt like he was punching her, though, and she made a sound she was sure she'd never made before. 

He stood. "Nothing's broken, I believe. You'll be fine in a bit, once the blood gets flowing again. Just keep rubbing up and down like that. All right?"

She nodded. 

"And Gemma?" 

She looked up at him. 

"You've been very brave, you and your sister, both. Very brave. Your mother and father will both be very proud." 

For some reason she couldn't understand, that made her cry harder. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 12/14


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Sustain III: Obbligato 13/14  
Authors: MaybeAmanda and Onemillionnine  
See Chapter One for Details

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John quickly and efficiently ascertained that all of Moriarty's men were dead, which, oath or no, was fine with him. Several black police vans had been heading up the drive as he and Mycroft came inside and John wanted to make sure there were no surprises or mistakes. 

Mycroft's wife and daughters were shaken and bruised, but John was certain that, after some rest and food, they would be fine. As soon as he had assured himself of these facts, he headed for Sherlock. 

Moments before, when he and Mycroft had arrived and Mycroft's snipers had picked off Moriarty's goons, Sherlock had been a whirlwind of activity, first striking down Moriarty, relieving his fallen henchmen of their weapons, then freeing the hostages, all with his usual speed and efficiency. Now, he sat on library table, blood-spattered and shaky, eyes wide. He had hold of his mother's wrist with one hand, and was clutching Molly and Eddie to his chest with the other. Something was very wrong with his right arm, though. John suspected a dislocated shoulder. 

Molly had a cut a few inches below her collar bone, one that opened and bled again every time she moved. Her dress had been sliced to ribbons, and there was a puddle of blood under her. Not a lot, he was relieved to see, but still, any was too much. 

Eddie, perched on Molly's lap, was the only one who seemed unharmed. The baby was jabbering away like John had never heard him do before, almost as if he was telling Sherlock off. Sherlock nodded as though he understood every utterance, tears rolling unheeded down his face.

"I'm so sorry, Molly, so sorry," Sherlock said over and over.

"Shh," Molly said. "It's over. We're all fine." 

Sherlock made a broken sound. "You aren't fine, no one is fine." 

"Shh," she said again.

"Is it true?" Sherlock asked her. "What Jim said, is it true?"

Molly nodded. 

Sherlock was paler than he had been. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." 

"Don't be sorry," she said, lifting her hand to his cheek. "Be happy. Try. I am." 

Her words didn't seem to comfort Sherlock at all. They seemed, in truth, to make matters worse. 

John decided it was a good time to intervene. 

"Sherlock, I need to see to Molly," he said. 

"Molly's right here," Sherlock said.

"I know, Sherlock, but Molly's hurt, and I need to take a look at her." 

Sherlock shook his head. Molly gave John a knowing look and a slight shrug. 

He looked at Mrs. Holmes, standing as far from Sherlock as she was able while he had a grip on her hand. There were faint bruises on her face and exposed wrists. Her blouse was torn and when she shifted, John saw the unmistakable dried stain on her trousers. He winced.

Oh God, no. That bastard had raped Sherlock's mother. Death wasn't good enough for Moriarty.

"I need a bath, Sherlock, please," Mrs. Holmes said. She was as pale and shaky as her son. "Please, _mon coeur._ " 

"No." Sherlock tugged her closer.

The first officers, in their SWAT uniforms, swarmed in, then. 

Mrs. Holmes closed her eyes. "Please, Sherlock. Please. I feel - I feel filthy."

Sherlock made a low noise and pulled her closer. 

"I'm sorry, um, Ma'am," John said, searching for the right words, "but you can't bathe right away. The police are going to need to collect evidence."

He hadn't noticed Mycroft rising from the stair where he'd been sitting with his wife and daughters to join them. "If my mother wishes to bathe, Dr. Watson," he said very quietly, "she may bathe."

"But the police -" John began. 

Mycroft cut him off. "These men are not the police." 

"Aren't they?" Mycroft's wife - John thought her name was Pip or Pippa or something ridiculous and posh - asked. She had to have hearing like a basset hound to have caught that, he mused. 

Mycroft turned to her. "No, dearest," he said, all false cheer, "they are not." 

Mycroft and his wife exchanged a long look. Neither seemed willing to blink. 

"Anyone for tea?" Mycroft's P.A., the one whose name was not really Anthea, asked brightly. She carried a tray covered in mugs, cups, bottles, and biscuits. "And there's juice for the girls, if they'd prefer." 

"So your P.A. is here as well? And she's making tea?" Mycroft's wife asked, squinting suspiciously. "Or are you going to tell me she's not actually your P.A.?" 

"She is most assuredly my P.A., darling," Mycroft said. He handed each of his daughters a bottle of juice, then took a cup from the tray, scooped three spoons of sugar into it, and handed it to his wife. "I suspect we are going to need to have a chat later."

She took the cup. "I suspect we are." 

John could have used a cup himself, but he wanted to see to Mrs. Holmes and Molly first. He just had to get Sherlock to turn them loose. 

"Ma'am?" Anthea said, offering the tray. "Sorry to have commandeered your kitchen, but needs must. Would you like a cup?"

Sherlock's mother shook her head. "No, I -" She looked down at the wrist Sherlock still had in a death-grip. 

Anthea set the tray down carefully. "Sherlock, you know your mother dislikes not looking her best in front of strangers. Let go of her arm and take this mug of tea so she can tidy herself up."

When Sherlock didn't react, Anthea said, in a much sterner voice than John had ever heard, "Now, Sherlock." 

Sherlock let his mother's hand go. "Well done," Anthea said, and handed him the drink. "Can Edmund have a biscuit, Dr. Hooper?" Molly nodded numbly and Anthea handed the boy a rich tea, which he accepted with a smile. 

"Molly's still bleeding, a bit," John told Sherlock. "I need to have a look." 

Sherlock managed a withering glare, pulled Molly and Eddie closer. 

"Sherlock," Mycroft's wife said, "you - you must let Dr. Watson have a look at Molly, that's what she's properly called, isn't it, Molly? You can help me tend to Edmund in the meantime, and Dr. Watson will bring her straight back soon as he's finished. I know you trust Dr. Watson." 

"I - I don't want to leave them," Molly said.

"C'mon, Molly, your leg is still bleeding," John said, resting his hand on her back. "You may need stitches. You need to let me take a look. I can do it here, but do you want this audience?" 

Molly shook her head. "No. Yes. You're - you're right." She turned her head to face Sherlock, and Sherlock leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, and closed his eyes slowly. 

"No cabs," Sherlock said. He brushed his closed lips against her cheek. "No cabs." 

"No cabs," Molly repeated, nodding blankly. 

They hadn't even kissed properly, but watching that made all the hair on John's arms stand at attention. This was like Sherlock's confession the day Eddie was born, that Molly made him _sandwiches_ \- he was seeing something private.

John helped Molly down from the table. 

"What is it with you two and cabs?" he asked, as he led her from the room. 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Pip hiked Edmund a little higher and looked at her seriously fucked-up arse of a brother-in-law. He'd saved them. Oh, Mycroft and Dr. Watson and all these men-who-were-not-the-police had something to do with it, but Sherlock was the one who walked in, unarmed, and took that madman Kubis or Jim or whoever he was, down. Sherlock had saved her children, and her, and everyone else in the room.

The cup was shaking in his hand.

She loved the idiot. She always had. Each had made a game of hating the other, and somehow, at some point, they'd forgotten it was a game. But she had a limited number of family members, so she could hardly afford not to care for those she did have. She wished Sherlock treated himself and the people around him better, but she supposed if he had managed to keep things some sort of together with Mary - no, Molly - this long, and if he could have a normal bloke like Dr. Watson for a friend, there was some hope for him. 

Maybe Sherlock had finally grown up. It might not be too much to ask. 

"All right?" she asked him. 

Sherlock snorted, not looking at her. "No." 

"I hear congratulations are in order, again," she said. 

Sherlock turned his head sharply toward her, looked alarmed, but said nothing. 

"You aren't the only one who can _observe_ , you know." 

Sherlock was trying to chew his thumb nail and sip from the cup at the same time. It wasn’t possible. 

"Oh, for God's sake, put that tea down before you spill it all over yourself," she said. "You look like you could use a fag." 

Ignoring her advice, Sherlock held the cup with both hands. "Gasping for one, but Molly doesn't - and not, not in front of Edmund," he said, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. 

"You've saved his life. I think you've earned a pass this once." Pip waggled her eyebrows at Edmund. "Doesn't he, darling?" she asked the baby. 

Edmund took a moment out of his busy biscuit-gumming schedule to frown at the very suggestion. 

"If it weren't for me, he wouldn't have been in any danger," Sherlock said, his voice bitter. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Pip said, her heart going out to him, "if it weren't for you, he wouldn't even exist." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Molly had only needed three small stitches, for which she was grateful. She had also needed a hot shower and a brief but enthusiastic cry, both of which she had as soon as John pronounced her sound. Physically sound, anyway.

The men in the SWAT uniforms - apparently not the police - had removed the bodies with expert efficiency in almost no time. Mycroft's P.A. had produced a cold buffet, somehow, and while Pip and the girls had been ravenous, the thought of food had made Molly ill. The effect of shock or pregnancy; she didn't know which. 

It was still early evening, and while they were all exhausted, no one seemed willing to break away from the group for too long. Which is how Molly found herself in the media room with John and all the Holmeses, watching cartoons. 

John had worked out that Sherlock had dislocated his shoulder breaking out of Moriarty's cuffs. Sherlock had tried to pop it back into place himself, but John had deemed it a crap job, and managed to put it back on the second try. Later, when he made a few vague noises about getting home to London, Sherlock took hold of his shirt and said, "Stay." So now he sat on the floor beside the girls, laughing at the programme, but looking uncomfortable. If she had the strength, Molly'd tell him to ignore Mr. Bossy and get back to his wife, but she couldn't seem to call up the words. In truth, it was all she could do to sip her tea and glance occasionally at the screen. 

Mycroft and Phillipa were in armchairs, side by side, eyes forward, but holding hands.

Violet had gone to her room at first, but didn't seem to want to be alone any more than the rest of them and came back, her hair wet, wearing her pyjamas and dressing gown. She sat on the loveseat with her knees drawn up to her chin, as if she was trying to make herself disappear. Molly wanted to tell her that she understood how she must feel, how she herself had been used by Jim to get information about Sherlock, to get access to him. Maybe sometime, after today had healed to shiny, white scar tissue, she would tell her. But not today. 

Sherlock kept Molly and Eddie with him on the window seat. For the first hour or so, he held her in a way he hadn't before, his left arm round her, her head tucked under his chin, rocking side to side. A day earlier Molly would have excused herself to nurse Eddie. Now, it seemed a ridiculous thing to be modest about in front of people who had seen her tied up and pathetically pleading for her life. So she nursed Eddie right there, in the same room as John and Mycroft and everyone, as much because she was knackered as anything. Mycroft's P.A. had found a blanket and draped it round her, but Sherlock hadn't said a thing, or even shot her a disapproving look. 

After Eddie was fed and changed, he began babbling at Sherlock again. It sounded like he was saying 'Mumma hat' which didn't mean much - Molly only owned one hat, a knit thing, and she hadn't worn it since last winter. He followed that up with a string of nonsense and something close to his own name. 

Sherlock pretended to understand, though, the way he did when Eddie lectured. "I know, Edmund," he said, and nodded. "Believe me, I know."

She wanted to be thrilled that her baby said not just his first word, but his first three words, all in one go, but she couldn’t. It had been such an awful day, and, if she were honest, since she'd seen Sherlock kneeling in the spray of Jim's blood, she hadn't felt a thing, good or bad. She knew she ought to be upset or relieved or something, but even that crying fit in the shower had been more physical than emotional. All she felt now was tired.

By the third hour, Eddie was asleep on Sherlock's chest and Sherlock was lying with his head in her lap, the way he did at home, but with none of his weight on her bandaged thigh. No one even noticed. The cartoons were still blaring. John was asleep on the floor, snoring softly. Sherlock's hair was just as pleasant to run her fingers through as it ever was, which was nice. She needed something easy, something soothing to do.

Then she heard a voice echoing through the house. Molly froze. A low, male voice, remarkably like Sherlock's. In fact, she would have taken it for Sherlock if his head hadn't been in her lap.

When she looked round the room, everyone else had gone still as well. And they all stayed as they were, staring at the door, as his foot steps echoed through the house. 

On the telly, one cartoon animal kissed the cartoon girl's hand. The cartoon girl gagged.

"What? No greeting for the _pater familias_ returning like Ulysses from the wars to the ancestral manse?" Quin said, "No 'Hello, Quin, how've you been?'" 

No one said anything. 

"Well, I see you boys took care of that nasty bit of business with The Roman." 

Violet, who hadn't said a word in hours, looked at Quin like she'd just woken up from a deep sleep. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"And it wasn't The Roman," Mycroft bit out. 

"Roman?" Molly asked Sherlock.

Sherlock just shook his head, and burrowed closer. 

"You haven't set foot in this house since 1990," Violet said. "Why are you here now?" 

"I've come to grant your request, darling," Quin said. "I've acceded to your wishes and signed your divorce papers. You may keep this house, of course."

"I don't want it," Violet said. "The upkeep alone would bankrupt me within a year."

"Well, I can't possibly take responsibility. You do recall I live in Bermuda?" 

"If you make me take it, I will have to sell it," Violet said.

"It's my family home, my legacy," Quin said. 

"Then you take care of it," Violet answered.

"Perhaps you, Mycroft -" 

"No, thank you," Mycroft said.

Quin paused a moment. Then he got a gleam in his eye. "What about you, Nancy?" he said. And it seemed to Molly that he was looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored him. 

"Having to come up with the cash to keep this heap from falling down might encourage you to stop giving every penny you can lay hands on to your new nanny, there." 

That got Sherlock's attention. He went so still he barely seemed to be breathing. 

But he said nothing, he did nothing. No one did. 

Ah. So that's how they all saw her. How Sherlock saw her, too, in all likelihood. That - that explained a lot. 

She thought of her own father, then. He might have been a bit intolerant of the French, Germans, and gay men (though not lesbians, of course; he was male, after all) and he never cared much for the police, but above all, he despised anything 'posh.' She looked around her and realized there wasn't much about Sherlock, or his family, her father wouldn't have hated. Christ, her dad would have taken one look at Sherlock and spit.

She hadn't realized Violet had jumped out of her chair until Molly saw her step forward and slap Quin hard across the face.

"That used to pass for foreplay," Quin said, and grasped Violet’s hand as it rose to strike again.

Violet snarled something. 

"Did she just call him a filthy dog?" Molly whispered to Sherlock.

"Your French is improving," Sherlock said dryly, and grabbed hold of her hand. "But that was the least of it. Please, don't listen. Please."

Even if Molly had a better grasp of spoken French, she never would have been able to follow the shrill, break-neck version Violet was hammering away at her husband with. It was just like Sherlock on a tear, only Gallic. Very much so. 

Violet said something Molly didn't catch that was clearly very rude. Not that she blamed her.

"In any event, you’re going to have to give up the romance of being Lady Halsbury," Tarquin said.

"Oh please. We’d been legally separated two years, and hadn’t properly lived together for more than six, when your father died. I’ve never been Lady Halsbury. Unlike some people, I don’t use what I have no right to," Violet said with such disgust, such bitterness, that Molly didn’t want to know what she was referring to. 

"Suit yourself, darling. The wedding's in March." Quin rubbed the side of his face. "I'll send you all invitations. My betrothed sends her regards, by the way."

"I never should have opened that trap door," Sherlock muttered, but Molly had no idea what he meant. 

"Get out!" Violet yelled. "Get out and -" she slipped into French again. 

"Be that as it may, Violet, the time has come," Quin said. He crossed the room and stood with his hand on the door handle. "She's anxious to start a family. And who knows," he smiled, "this time, I may even get a son." 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 13/14


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Sustain III: Obbligato 14/14  
Authors: Maybe_Amanda and OneMIllionNine

NOTES AT THE END

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Molly had no idea what Sherlock had promised, or threatened, or what favour he had called in with the head of sonography, but instead of Molly having to trudge all over Barts in a flimsy hospital gown, the tech had wheeled a portable machine into Mike's examination room and was conducting the sonogram there. Sherlock stood with his hands in his pockets, pointedly not averting his eyes when the tech inserted the vaginal probe. Molly distracted herself from her fretting by noting that it was a good thing John and Sarah had offered to take Eddie for the afternoon; another person couldn't have fit in there with them, not even one as small as her son.

"Well, that's a heartbeat, right there," Mike said, pointing at the screen.

"And a head, an arm, another arm, trunk, and two legs." Sherlock sniffed. "Obviously." 

"Obviously," Mike agreed. "Active, too."

"Of course he is," Sherlock said. 

"Eight weeks is too soon to hazard a guess at sex, even for you, Sherlock." Mike turned to the tech. "That should do it, Meg. Thanks so much." 

The three of them waited in silence. Mike looked at Sherlock expectantly. Finally, when the tech had wheeled all her equipment away, he said, "Sherlock, would you give us a moment?"

Sherlock scowled. "No."

Oh lord. That's what this appointment needed - male posturing. "Don't, Sherlock. I mean, Mike, any, anything you have to say, you can say in front of Sherlock."

Mike looked a bit skeptical, but spoke just the same. "Despite everything, the baby looks fine, so that's good. As you know, Molly, that's how it goes at this stage; depending on the level of trauma, either they hang on or they don't, and there's not much to be done." 

Molly swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, and nodded. 

"But your Eddie's what? Six months old? Seven?"

"Nearly nine," Sherlock said. 

"Nine, then," Mike said. "Either way, you're going to need help. It's entirely too soon for you to be pregnant again. I am fairly certain a fertility clinic wouldn’t have allowed you another pregnancy so soon. You ought to have waited at least twelve months before getting out the home chemistry set." 

Molly threw one arm over her face. Exactly what she wanted - a speech about her irresponsibility, from Mike, in front of Sherlock, to make her feel extra foolish. 

"Molly _has_ help," Sherlock said, his voice as tightly controlled as Molly had ever heard it. She'd asked him to play nicely with Mike, and, he was trying, but Mike wasn't making it easy. 

Mike looked Sherlock up and down, shook his head. "Real help." 

"This - this wasn't planned," Molly blurted out, feeling the need to defend herself, and Sherlock. "This, pregnancy, I mean. It wasn't planned, it was, was, um, -" 

"Unplanned," Sherlock said. 

"Oh." Mike said, then, "oh," again, sounding incredulous. "So you two -?" 

"Yes." Sherlock sniffed. "We two." 

"I see," Mike said. He flipped on the lights. "Why don't we step into the corridor and give Molly a chance to get dressed?" 

Sherlock looked like he was going to object, but it sounded like a very good idea to Molly. "Yes, please."

Sherlock put on his fake smile. "Yes. Let's." 

They left and Molly sat up, determined to get dressed and get out of there as quickly as possible. The problem was, she could hear them in the next room just as easily as if they'd stayed in there with her. She ripped off her paper gown in the futile hope of getting ready to leave before either of them said something awful or stupid.

"Explain it to me. Now," Mike said. 

"Explain what?" Sherlock asked. 

"The cuts. The bruises. That gashes on her leg and breast. The marks on her wrists and ankles. All of it." 

"Molly told you. She was assaulted." 

"That level of damage was not the result of a random mugging, Sherlock," Mike said. 

"No, it wasn't, nor did she say it was. It was, in fact, a well-planned, rather complex, targeted assault." 

"On our Molly? Who'd want to do something like that to her?" 

Molly closed her eyes, and fought the urge to clap her hands over her ears and hum. She didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to hear about how she'd been stupid and gullible and taken in by a kind man with sweet face and lilting voice who'd only pretended to want her in order to irritate Sherlock. She didn't want to hear about how he'd come after her again, for the same sick reason, only this time with the intention of killing her and her son, and making Sherlock witness it all. She didn't want to hear about how Sherlock felt responsible and obligated to her because of it. How he was stuck with them now. 

"You do understand that it wouldn't be at all professional to turn a patient's personal life into fodder for the hospital gossip mill, correct?" Sherlock asked.   
"Particularly if that patient were a doctor in this hospital?" 

"Don't lecture me on ethics, Sherlock Bloody Holmes. What I was looking at in there -" 

"What exactly is it you're thinking? Some flavour of domestic abuse? No, no, something - something more exotic, to your mind, anyway, something dare I say, kinkier, something - Oh good God, Mike, knife-play? With the pregnant mother of my child? Are you mad?" 

With her discarded gown, Molly wiped off all the slick blue ultrasound medium she could, then struggled with her knickers. Listening to this while she dressed made her all thumbs.

Both men were silent a moment. 

"Just - just tell me what happened," Mike said. 

Molly's stomach plummeted.

"Do you remember Jim from IT?" Sherlock said. "Dated Molly for a bit?" 

"Irish? Yeah, nice bloke. What of him?" 

"Irish, yes, nice, no. Remember the mad bomber a few years back? The one who abducted people, strapped them into Semtex vests, then sent the police riddles?" 

"What of it?" 

"Jim from IT." 

"But that bomber, he died -"

"Yes he did, but not until four days ago, when he did that to Molly, and I killed him."

There was a brief stretch of silence. "Are you - are you serious?" 

"Quite," Sherlock answered. 

"That poor, poor girl. She can't catch a break, can she?" Mike cleared his throat. "Well, okay then, fine. Falling pregnant again so soon has left her an elevated risk of miscarriage, delivering a baby with low birth weight, a range of conditions from cerebral palsy to -" 

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm aware, as, I am sure, is Molly." 

Yes, of course she knew all that. She didn't need Mike rubbing it in Sherlock's face, though. And while it was riskier, people did have perfectly healthy babies close together all the time. They also had sick babies who were spaced far apart. 

That was life, wasn't it? You couldn't eliminate all the unforeseen occurrences; some things just happened. Yes, she'd been reckless, but so far, the baby was fine. Mike needed to leave Sherlock alone. 

And, dammit, she had to take off her bra and put it back on again, because it had a twist in it.

"I don't know what the situation between you two is, and I don't pretend to understand it," Mike said, "but this can't happen again, Sherlock. You can't let this happen again." 

"No one was forced," Sherlock said, and Molly could picture his face, picture his expression perfectly. He was about three seconds from telling Mike off and then storming out, and suddenly, she couldn't remember how to tie her own shoes. 

"I didn't say anyone was," Mike said. "But you're not some stupid teenage boy. It's your knob, mate, so it's your responsibility to wrap it up. Don’t bloody roll your eyes at me. And don't do this to her again." 

Just as Molly got the last of her kit on, she heard Sherlock say, in that calm, even tone of his which was anything but, "Are you quite finished, Dr. Stamford?" 

Molly opened the door. "Ready!" she said, too brightly and too loudly. 

Sherlock's expression went from vexed to confused. He squinted at her. "You do realize that your shirt's the wrong side out, don't you?" 

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

London passed by the cab in a blur. Sherlock felt Molly's hand on his. She was tense and upset. And he could tell she'd come to some decision. 

Fine. He sat up a little straighter. The predator, he reminded himself, not the prey. 

Molly cleared her throat. "You only signed on for the one, um, baby," she said. "I understand that. But things have - well, this is - is my decision, my choice. I want to continue this pregnancy, and hopefully, um. I know Mike's trying to be nice, but like most of the obstetricians I've met, he's well, he's a bit sexist, and paternalistic, and um, - "

"Molly." He knew where this was going, but he didn't have to like it. 

"- what, what I'm trying to say is, don't listen to Mike. You don't have to, you aren't obligated, I - l can handle it, handle this. I can." She exhaled raggedly. "So." 

And there is was. He'd been given the boot. 

Sherlock was surprised how calm he felt.

He had known it was coming from the beginning, and, in truth, there was a certain amount of relief in knowing he no longer had to wait for the penny to drop, for Molly to realize she was better off without him.

He wondered if he was expected to say something. Tough luck if he was. He wasn't going to beg, not again. No, she wanted shut of him, and she could have it. It was, after all, the wisest decision he'd ever known her to make. 

Edmund would be better off. Molly would be better off. This - this new child would be better off. The only one who'd be worse for the break would be Sherlock.

He'd seen so much of it in cases over the years. Molly would bring Edmund and the other one around fairly regularly at first, but that would taper off to Christmas, Easter, and, if he were very lucky and very well-behaved, birthdays, but since Sherlock was rarely well-behaved, birthdays were unlikely. Soon enough, he and Edmund would be strangers, strangers who shared DNA and looked as alike as any father and son ever had. 

Eventually, to put more distance between them, Molly would leave London. She'd have an excuse - work opportunity, better schools, bigger garden, something inane. Would she take them to Sheerness, where she'd grown up? No, Sheerness was wretched; she wouldn't do that to his children. Her children, really. Cardiff, perhaps. Or, no, America. Molly would think that was a safe distance. An ocean away. 

And, sooner or later, there'd be another man, a man who was worthy of her. Without a doubt, this worthy man, her eventual husband, would be both stupid and dull, with some very stupid, noble occupation, something endearing. A veterinarian? No, a paediatrician. Oh yes, that would be it. They would meet on the children's account, Molly and her paediatrician. In Sherlock's mind, he was large, tanned, and unbearably handsome, not just proficient at portraying confidence, but actually attractive, and utterly unselfconscious and artless about it. And before long, Sherlock's children would call this man 'Daddy,' and Sherlock would be nothing to them, nothing more than that weird man on Skype their mother insisted they speak to from time to time. 'Daddy' would be big on wholesome family activities and team sport, and somehow, Edmund would become him.

Then one day, Edmund, a grown man, would come to London - the other child not even caring enough to want to meet Sherlock in person - to stand face to face with him, and wonder what in the world his mum had ever seen in such a lonely, pathetic freak. 

By then, he would be nothing to Molly. Perhaps she might pity him, a little. He'd prefer she hate him. 

One thing was certain; for as long as he lived, Sherlock Holmes was never going to allow another female creature to stick her hooks into him. He was not bedding down with another one, no matter how his loins throbbed. He was not even so much as pressing his sexual organ into another female mouth. Any mouth. Ever.

Frankly, all this, this _episode_ had done was remind him that sexual relations in general were a bad idea. Sherlock decided in that moment he'd give it all up permanently. Not just love, because, ha! Love! But sex, sex was also for hapless dupes, and Sherlock had no wish to be anyone's dupe again.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and walked up to his flat without another word to Molly.

He wasn't expecting her foot steps racing after him.

"Sherlock?" she said, opening the door.

"I see I shall have to begin locking that." He sprawled on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and wondered if this were truly necessary. Was she somehow obligated to rub salt into this wound immediately? Could it not be allowed to fester for some time first?

"What?" 

" _'What?'_ " he said in imitation, then sneered. "We'll always have Paris, won't we? Well, in our case, Marseilles, I suppose."

"I'm just trying, to, to, to," Molly stuttered.

"'To, to, to,' oh, come now, Molly, one little verb and you'll have an infinitive, and after that, you can work on a complete thought, perhaps for the first time ever!" His voice rose with each word. 

Molly sat heavily on the arm of the chair. "You're - you're upset." 

"Am I?" 

"I just wanted you to know you - you needn't put yourself out," Molly said. 

He hazarded a peek at her. Her eyes were wide and teary. Oh, splendid. She was a tricky one, with her jeans and her hair in plaits, pure cruelty disguised as an innocent girl. Temptress. Siren. Ensnarer of foolish mortals, none more foolish than he. 

"Let's see, what comes next? Oh yes - ' _It's not me; it's you,_ ' or have I got that the wrong way round?" 

"Sherlock -" Molly said, crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks unchecked, now.

"Let's be friends!" Sherlock forced himself to smile.

"Sherlo -" 

"I'll have you know, Molly Hooper, that we have never been, will never be, friends."

"I'm your friend," Molly said. "Whether you want me to be or not, I am."

"No, you most assuredly are not," Sherlock corrected her. Would a friend take his children away? Would a friend abandon him? Cast him aside? No, a friend would not. "What you are is a fool."

"Why are you doing this?" Molly's voice squeaked the way it did when she was distraught.

"Doing what? Telling the truth?" Sherlock shouted, his heart pounding. "Reality not living up to your expectations? Take it from one who knows; it seldom does."

"What - what are you talking about?" 

"The Sherlock Holmes Experience not quite what you imagined it would be when you were alone in your flat with your vibrator?" He smiled his most vicious smile, hoping that would make her leave. If she was going, he would rather she do so now than five minutes from now, or a week from now, for that matter. All he wanted was for her to go, for her to shut up and just be gone. 

Molly rocked back as if he'd struck her. Good; she'd struck hard enough at him.

"Why are you being so cruel?" Molly asked.

"Me? Cruel?" he said, caught completely off guard. "Excuse me? Did I just dump you? You, you're the one, Molly, the one who started this." 

"No." Molly said. "No, I never. After what Mike said, I just, I didn't want you to feel, to feel pressurized."

Sherlock was on his feet now, pacing the well-worn track between the sofa and table. "So you gave me the boot? 'No undue pressure, Sherlock; now piss off.'" 

"I, I, I, never said - I have never -" 

"You did," Sherlock said. "You do. Repeatedly. Six times, in fact."

Molly blinked at him, looking genuinely puzzled. "What are you talking about?" 

"A year ago March, the twenty-fourth to be exact. Your precise words were, 'I'm over you. The last thing I need - the very last thing - is to be tied, in even the slightest way, to you, for the next eighteen years.' Sound familiar?" 

Molly's mouth opened and closed. 

He didn't give her a chance to fill the gap, though. "Eight days later; the second of April. Your words, spoken, I might remind you, while arguing pointlessly over a cab in front of Mycroft's flat: 'I don't want a boyfriend, I don't need a boyfriend.'" 

"Oh," she said. 

"Yes, 'oh,'" he said. "And I have been breaking my bloody back trying not to be your boyfriend ever since!"

"Sherlock -" 

"Three days later, the fifth of April; 'That ought to do it, Sherlock, you needn't worry about coming back tomorrow. Or at all.'" 

"I - I didn't want -" Molly said, in a tiny voice.

"The day Edmund was born," Sherlock said. "'I'd like to thank you for everything and let you know I can manage from here.'"

Molly's hands covered her face, and she shook with silent sobs. He hated when she cried, hated it. But not enough to stop. 

"Mothering Sunday and your threats to leave? Your suggestion I piss off in the cab just now? What am I supposed to make of all this evidence, Molly? What am I to conclude? If you do not, in fact, want me to go away, why do you keep telling me to? You want rid of me, and quite badly, too, judging by the number of times you've tried to slip your foot from the noose."

He waited. Molly said nothing. 

"Answer me, Molly," he spat. "Say something!" 

She sniffed and ineffectively wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands She started to speak, but had to stop and clear her throat several times. "Tissue?" she finally said.

"In your pocket." Where it always is, he wanted to shout, just like the extra teether and half of one biscuit or another. 

Molly fished the tissues out and wiped her nose. "I didn't - I don't want to take advantage of you."

He stopped pacing. "You don't want. To take advantage. Of me?" 

She sniffed and nodded. 

Well. That was probably the most asinine thing she had ever said to him. Which led him to believe she was telling the truth. 

"I didn't - I couldn't see what, what you were getting out of it, out of this." She said quietly. "I still don't." 

Sherlock squinted at her. That - that could not be right. Molly wielded all the power, here. She had Edmund. She had, at the most basic level, complete control over this next baby - she could terminate, if she chose, or raise it to hate him. Food. Comfort. Contentment he hadn't known since he was a boy and could climb into Evie's lap whenever he liked. She had herself. All the desired, desirable things, all the things that made him weak and needy; they were hers.

"Circumstances - circumstances got the better of us, of me, at least," she continued. "And yes, Sherlock, I am your friend, and because of that, I didn't want - I don't want you to feel obligated, or cornered, or - or trapped. I want you to have a choice." 

Sherlock ran his hands over his face without particularly meaning to. Since when had he been one to do anything because he was obliged? Had Molly mistaken him for John Watson somewhere along the line? No one forced Sherlock Holmes to do anything. Ever. 

"Are you insane?" he asked. 

Molly chuckled brokenly, sniffled, dabbed at her nose. "Probably." 

"I made my choice some time ago." He couldn't tell her the day or hour, because it had not been like that. It was no snap decision, no thunder clap or flash of lightning. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when the die had been cast, he only knew that it had been, and irrevocably.

"I know, but -" 

"No Molly, I am obligated to you, because I have chosen to be. From the start, you have been kind to me, always, whether I deserved it or not, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing that. I made my choice, and I made you a promise."

She sniffed. "You offered me money and the use of your lab equipment." 

"Yes, and four days ago, I stabbed a man through the heart. For you." 

She blinked at him, and looked surprised, as if she hadn't been witness to the whole thing. "For me?" 

"I hadn't planned to kill him, you know. It wasn't like that, but it soon became apparent that John and Mycroft were not as close as I'd assumed they'd be, and that I'd have no other choice. I thought about stabbing him in the gut; peritonitis, as you know, is a much nastier way to go, and he could have suffered for days if I'd have done it just so. But no, he was hurting you, he kept hurting you, he would have kept hurting you, you and Edmund, and I wanted, I needed, to end him quickly," Sherlock said, feeling raw and exposed. "I've never killed anyone before. I hope never to have to do it again. But I would. And I will." 

Molly looked up at him, tears running down her face. "I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry."

He didn't know how to respond. Perhaps she was coming around to his way of thinking, and that was good, that was the effect he'd hoped telling her the absolute truth would have. 

She threw her arms round him, sobbing into his shirt. "I've been horrid to you, haven't I?" 

He shrugged. "A bit." He put his arms around her, cautiously. That made her cry harder and cling more. "Would you please stop crying? Molly? Stop?" he asked the ceiling, faintly embarrassed. "Please? Stop." 

"Eventually." She continued bawling.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Sherlock felt tired, as though the weight of the last two years, from John's marriage to the final, utterly certain death of Moriarty by his own hand, fell upon him all at once. The need to order the world, to set it right, demanded his attention, pressed down on him like a corporeal presence. 

He closed his eyes, counted heartbeats. Hers, this time. He reached five-hundred and ninety two before he felt her hold on him loosen slightly and he thought it might be safe to speak. Slowly, gently, he prised Molly's arms from around him and stepped back, holding her hands, but putting some distance between them.

"Molly," he said, trying to interrupt her tears, "Molly, all this, all this hardly matters." 

She frowned. "What, what do you mean?" 

"If you leave me today, tomorrow, next week, next year, or ten years from now, you're going to leave me, eventually." 

"What? No. I'm not!" 

"You are." He shouldn't have to spell it out for her, but sometimes she could be so thick. "A story is either a comedy and everyone lives happily, or it's a tragedy, and no one does. I think we both know what I've got coming." 

She was doing it again, peering at him with her nose wrinkled and her brow furrowed and her mouth hanging open as if she were hoping to catch a few passing flies. It was a singularly unattractive look, but he felt this was probably not the time to mention that. 

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "You're an idiot." 

"I'm not," he said reflexively. 

"No, no, you are, you must be, if you believe that." 

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Molly -" 

"Real life isn't - isn't just any one thing, Sherlock. There's no script. It's never that simple. Expecting the worst, doom and gloom and unremitting misery, is just as, as, unrealistic as expecting life to be sunshine and rainbows and a basket full of kittens, day-in and day-out. Real life is perfectly pleasant some days and an absolute horror show others, and there's a lot of taking out the bins and doing the washing up and folding laundry in between."

"I send my laundry out," he said.

Molly didn't have his restraint - she did roll her eyes. "I know you do, Sherlock, and that's really not the point, is it?"

Sherlock held her right hand tightly in his own. "I told you before we began this, this, arrangement, that this is - not my area. I will inevitably disappoint you and eventually you'll tire of being let down. The last thing I want is to become tiresome. And I don't see how it can be avoided."

Molly kissed the knuckles of the hand that held hers. "I'm not stupid. I know you're the way you are, and I - I really don't care." 

That was a lie. "Of course you -" 

"Shut up. I don't want to be with you because I think you're perfect or that you're going to make my life perfect or, or even easy. Fairy stories are just fairy stories. I want to be with you because you're amazing and, and brilliant and a wonderful father and, and, and I love you." She tilted her chin up, defiant. "I said it. Too bad. I love you." 

Sherlock took a step back and forced himself to truly look at her, to consider her in a way he hadn't allowed himself to in almost two years. He'd avoided it, telling himself it was out of respect for her, when it had been, in truth, out of fear of what he might have seen. He pushed his trepidation - his cowardice, really, - aside, and did what he did best: he observed. 

"What - what are you doing?" she asked brow furrowing. 

He ignored her, choosing instead to consider her words, her behaviour, the way she held herself, the tilt of her chin, the slight downward curve of her lips. The fact that she'd given him a son, and now another child. The fact that she tended to his wounds and endured Bartok at two a.m. The fact that she always, always, always made him sandwiches. 

The fact that she stayed. 

Oh. 

It felt -

\- it felt like being shot, like being shot and then -

\- and then surviving. 

Sherlock had always had a low opinion of love. It seemed mawkish, over-rated, and embarrassing, a precursor to tragedy. But perhaps one could love, could be loved, and live. Perhaps even he could.

As for loving Molly, he'd lost that battle. He doubted he could stop now even if he tried.

"You really do, don't you?" 

"Yes, I really do." She moved in close again, looping her arms around him, and tucking herself neatly under his chin. "And I think," she told the placket of his shirt, "based on accumulated evidence, there's a possibility, that you love me, too." 

He was glad he didn't have to look at her. He had no idea what his expression might betray. "What evidence?" 

"You pursued me relentlessly, remember?"

He had said that, hadn't he? He could deny it all he liked, but it had not been a lie. "So I did." 

"You found me a lovely flat, very close to yours. You give me too much money, then worry it's not enough. And you stabbed a man in the heart for me, Sherlock. You just told me so." 

"I did, didn't I?" 

She nodded. "Or is that something you do for all the girls?" 

"Not all of them, no." 

"So," she lifted her head from his chest, and looked him in the eye, "given the data, what do you conclude?"

He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. "You are very likely right." 

Even though she was irredeemably short and it was always uncomfortable this way and it made his neck ache in no time at all, he leaned down and opened Molly's lips with his own. Molly hummed, the way she did when she was happy, went all soft and pliable, and he hummed his agreement. Her mouth was delicious.

Sometimes, even when improvising, he had truly excellent ideas. 

Molly broke the kiss. "Sherlock," she whispered, tugging gently at his collar.   
"John isn't due to bring Eddie home until three." 

And sometimes, Molly did, too.

"No, he's not," he said. "What shall we do in the meantime?"

Molly took a step back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and patted her hair into place. "Take me to Angelo's?" she asked. "I'm suddenly famished."

Not, in truth, the answer he'd expected, or been hoping for. And at that moment, Sherlock felt too exposed, too raw to venture out in public. There were things he needed to tell her, things she needed to know. "The Tesco delivery came this morning," he said, as if that explained everything. 

Molly sagged a bit, frowned. "I don't want to co-" 

"I could prepare something," he said. "I could make you something. To eat."

"You?" Molly looked skeptical. "You don't cook." 

"'Don't' is not the same as 'can't'. " He cleared his throat. "I am capable of a great deal more than you realize." 

Molly looked at him a moment, her eyes darting from his eyes to his mouth and back again and making him feel like a culture on a slide. Then reached up and kissed him. "I think you're capable of a great deal more than you realize, too," she said. "Why don't you make me a sandwich?"

Sherlock had no idea why his chest felt tight as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I can do that.”

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:  
 **NOTES:**

(1) Epilogue on Friday. Coda, Monday. (Or Monday and Wednesday. Probably. Stay tuned.)  
(2) Due to real life madness (and numerous archive issues) feedback and comments have piled up, unanswered. Please know that each is appreciated, and will be read and answered a.s.a.p., probably within the week.   
(3) Thanks again to our beta (what_alchemy) and Britpicker (non-canonical) for all their help. Very, very much appreciated!  
(4) Thanks to BTCC, LLc., for promotional consideration.   
(5) YOU GUYS! No, really, YOU GUYS! Thanks so much for your wildly enthusiastic support for this series. We've had a fantastic time creating it, and we're so glad it's found an audience. 

 

End 14/14


	15. Epilogue

Sustain III: Obbligato - Epilogue  
Authors: OneMillionNine and MaybeAmanda  
See Part One For Notes and Details  
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sarah was trying to get over the past few months and everything that had happened since that day in the surgery when she delivered the baby. She'd told herself, again and again, that all she needed was time. Well, she'd had time. It wasn't working. 

She felt so hollow. She didn't know it was possible to care so much for someone else's child. But it was. And she did. And it was awful. 

When the hospital informed them, a few days after John came home from his last big adventure with Sherlock, that someone had stepped forward as possible genetic match for Chris, John had been so happy, so relieved. "That is great news," he'd assured her. "We won't have to worry about him now, Sweetheart. He'll have someone to love him." 

She'd smiled and agreed. She'd felt as though she'd been gutted, though. He already had someone to love him. 

Now, two weeks later, she was actively trying to let go and move on. Let go - move on - make peace - find closure. Chat-show psychobabble. Utter shite. What she wanted was to drink gin and lie on the sofa feeling sorry for herself. 

"Need help?" John called from the lounge. 

"No," she replied, rounding up her cooking supplies. "My turn. You relax." 

It was all so bloody unfair. She had married John with the express desire on both their parts to start a family, and soon. It hadn't taken long to realize that was not happening. And it wasn't her. It was John. 

Too bad he was such a good husband. Too bad he was such a good man. She felt like a complete cow for blaming him, even in passing; for letting that horrid little thought creep into the far corner of her mind. He was, in most ways, the best partner a woman could ask for, and it was a stupid bloody world where Sherlock Holmes could make a baby - two now, apparently - and John Watson couldn't.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Sarah knew John would be understanding, but it was Sunday afternoon and she ought to be able to make a meal for her husband without bursting into tears. 

She wiped her eyes again and glared at the onion on the cutting mat. She hadn't even touched it yet, but too bad - she was blaming the onion for her crying, regardless.

The buzzer sounded then. 

"Are we expecting someone?" John asked. 

"I'm not." She peeled the outer layer off the onion, set to work chopping it. She hoped it wasn't Sherlock dropping by to steal John. But, really, he never came by the flat without Molly in tow to act as buffer; he usually just texted, and John went running. Of course he did. 

No sooner had Sarah finished wiping her hands dry than she heard conversation in the lounge. Another man, but she didn't recognize the voice. Curiosity getting the better of her, she stuck her head out of the kitchen door to see who it was. 

A man was standing with his back to her. It was as if John Steed was in her living room, brolly and all. 

"Oh, Sarah, you've met Sherlock's brother, haven't you?" 

"Yes, of course," she said. "At the christening. Hello." She was struck again by how different to Sherlock he was. He was tall and thin as well, but he was nowhere near as striking as his brother. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Holmes."

"Mycroft, please." He smiled a very small smile. 

"Please call me Sarah, then," she replied. Mycroft? Sherlock? Had their parents hated them? 

"So, Mycroft," John said, "to what do we owe this very unexpected visit?" 

"Unsettled business, for the most part," Mycroft answered. "Shall we have a seat?"

It wasn't until she was at the table that Sarah realized that Mycroft Holmes had offered her a seat in her own home.

"To come directly to the point, Dr. Sawyer - Sarah, - I occupy a minor position in the British government -" 

"Very minor," John said, holding his index finger and thumb scant millimeters apart. 

"- and, thus, I am privy to certain confidential information."

"Oh, I see," Sarah said. She was bluffing; she didn't see anything but her husband sitting across the table with a death grip on his mug of tea, suddenly looking alarmed. Her mind raced. What in the world - 

"Mycroft," John said, a warning note in his voice. 

"It seems the anonymous party who came forward as possible match for the child delivered in your surgery has been shown -" 

"Mycroft," John said, more firmly. 

Mycroft held up his hand, staying John's objection. "As I was saying, was shown not to be the child's natural parent."

"I - oh." Something in Sarah's chest felt as though it was unfolding, something like hope. And yet there was something about Mycroft's actual words that felt odd. 'Natural parent' - what a strange turn of phrase.

Mycroft opened his case, extracted a folder. "Because of this unexpected event, and in light of services your husband has provided The Crown, certain persons have seen fit to expedite your application for the child's adoption." 

John's head shot up. "What?" 

"We haven't, we didn't -" Sarah tried to explain. "There must be a mistake. We've talked about applying, but -" 

Mycroft frowned. "Nonsense. How could your application have been approved if you haven't made one? That would be both impossible and highly inappropriate." 

Across the table, John cleared his throat softly and wiped at his eyes with his thumb. "Mycroft - " 

"So, wait, what are you saying? Are you saying -" Her voice sounded strange and far away. She couldn't believe this. 

"I am saying that, in a fortnight, when the child - Christopher Hamish, yes? - When Christopher is ready to leave the hospital, you'll be allowed to bring him home. Providing you still wish to, of course." 

Oh.

"Of course, of course we do," Sarah said, her heart racing. And then, to be sure, she asked, "We do, don't we, John?" 

"Yes, of course we do, of course," John said. "But, but, Mycroft, what about -" 

"My nephew needs playmates, John. Your son will do nicely. Now, I must run." 

Sarah didn't remember Mycroft leaving, though he obviously had. 

Several days later, she found a clipping from a newspaper, a scandal sheet, really, tucked into an unsealed envelope in the folder Mycroft had left. An account of the sordid details of some cricket player's infidelities and his wife's fourth trip to rehab.

Something wouldn't let her throw it away.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:  
End Epilogue


End file.
